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THE COMPANION 

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OF' THE TOUE OF FRANCE. 




BY GEORGE SAND. 


TRANSLATED BY 

FRANCIS GEO. SHAW. 



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NEW YORK: 

WILLIAM H. GRAHAM, TRIBUNE BUILDINGS. 





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Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1847, by 

FRANCIS GEO. SHAW, 

in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York. 


R. CRAIGHEAD, PRINTER & STEREOTYPER, 
112 FULTON STREET. 


GEORGE SAND, BY JOSEPH MAZZINI. 


VWVWWWNV 

. . . “ And it is this which renders her doubly dear and 
sacred to us. She has suffered through us and for us. She 
has passed through the crisis of the age. The evil that she 
has pictured is not her evil, it is ours. It does not come to 
us from her ; it was and is yet around us, in the air we 
breathe, in the foundations of our corrupt society, in the 
hypocrisy, above all, which has spread its ample cloak 
over all the manifestations of our life. Only whilst we, 
partly from incapacity, partly from cowardice, have been 
silent at the risk of allowing the evil to become a fatal 
sore, she has spoken ; she has, with daring hand, torn away 
the veil ; she has laid bare the festering wounds, and she 
has cried to us : Behold your society /” 

People’s Journal, April, 1847. 


. . . “ In England my works are translated with omis- 
sions and alterations. I disavow such interpretations, — this 
is all that I can do ; but I should never know how to explain 
to the English why I disavow them. It wounds my con- 
science — I can say no more. All that I have written I 
have thought, and I think still.” . . . 

George Sand, April , 1847 . 


GEORGE SAND’S PREFACE 


TO THE NEW EDITION OF HER WORKS, PUBLISHED IN 1842. 


During the past ten years, a strange phenomenon has appeared, 
respecting my novels, in quite a small corner of the literary 
stage. It would hardly be worth while to mention it, if all other 
cases of the same nature were not connected with this instance 
among a thousand. The following is the fact, personal to my- 
self at first sight, but nevertheless relating to great social ques- 
tions. 

During these ten years, in a series of novels, which I do not 
on that account pretend to consider as either very important or 
very profound, I have addressed to the men of my time a suc- 
cession of very sincere questions, to which criticism has as yet 
found no answer, other than that I was very indiscreet in wishing 
to inquire for the truth. I asked, with much reserve and submis- 
sion at my first appearance, in two novels, entitled Indiana and 
Valentine , what was the morality of marriage, as contracted and 
considered in our day. I was twice answered that I was a dan- 
gerous questioner, consequently an immoral novelist. 

This persistence in eluding the question, after the manner of the 
Catholics, by condemning the spirit of examination, astonished 
me somewhat on the part of the daily press, in which I sought in 
vain for any trace of a religion or a belief. This made me 
think that the ignorance of criticism referred not only to social 
but also to human questions ; and I allowed myself to ask of it, 


GEORGE SAND’S PREFACE. 


viii 

in a novel entitled Lelia , how it understood and how it explained 
love. 

This new question threw criticism into a real fury. Never 
had a novel unchained such anathemas, or excited such savage 
indignation. I had a perverse mind, an odious character, an 
obscene pen, for having sketched the portrait of a woman who 
seeks in vain for love in the heart of the men of our time, and 
who retires to the desert there to dream of the love with which 
Saint Theresa burned. Still I was not convinced that the 
fathers of the church, with whom my head was filled at that 
period, had inspired me with the thought of an abominable book. 

I wrote a new novel entitled Jacques , in which, taking a man 
for the principal type, I asked again, and this time in the name 
of the man, as I had before in the name of the woman, what was 
the ideal of love in marriage. This time, it was still worse. I 
was the enemy of marriage, the apologist of licentiousness, the 
contemner of fidelity, the corrupter of all women, the scourge 
of all husbands. 

Still later, in a novel entitled Spiridion, I asked of my age 
what was its religion. I was told that this preoccupation of my 
brain wanted actuality . The critics, who had so reproached me 
with having neither faith nor law, with being but an artist , that 
is, in their then humor, an atheist worthy of the stake, addressed to 
me learned and paternal reproaches for my pretensions to a be- 
lief, and accused me of wishing to assume the airs of a philoso- 
pher. Remain an artist, they cried to me, on every side, as 
Voltaire said to his wig-maker : Stick to your wigs. 

Later still, in a novel entitled, the Companion of the Tour of 
France , I asked what was social right, and what human right ; 
what justice was practicable in our day, and what arguments we 
must use to persuade the proletaries that the present inequality of 
the rights and of the means of development was the last word of our 
social structure, and of the wisdom of our laws. I was answered 


GEORGE SAND’S PREFACE. 


IX 


that I wished to know too much, that I courted the populace, that 
I was the follower of a certain Jesus Christ, and of several other 
very wicked reasoners, whom the justice of all ages and the 
interest of all governments had sent to the gallows. 

Provided with such good information, enlightened, as you see, 
by the doctors of the press, accused and convicted of the crime 
of curiosity, I confess that those doctors have, at least, taught me 
one thing : it is, that the criticism of our daily press has not the 
first word of those social enigmas, for the solution of which I 
have ingenuously asked. This is why I shall continue to ques- 
tion my contemporaries, not accepting in any manner this rea- 
soning of the conservatives, that we ought not to make known the 
evil , unless we have found a remedy. If questions be crimes, there 
is a way of stopping them : that is, to answer them ; and I ask 
those persons whom my curiosity offends, to put my mind at rest 
once for all, by proving to me that everything is clear, and that 
all goes well. But, hitherto, alas ! they have given me no other 
answer than that of the song of king Dagobert, that great politi- 
cian of past times, if we are to believe the legend : 

Apprends, lui dit le roi, 

Que je n’aime pas les pourquoi* 

Far from me the intention of presenting myself here as a vic- 
tim of opinion and prejudice, in order to repel the literary criti- 
cisms to which my books have been subjected. In matters of 
art, I shall willingly acknowledge the competency of criticism, 
attributing no other merit to my works than the sincerity and the 
ardor of investigation which have dictated them, and not seeking 
elsewhere for the cause of the popularity they have acquired, in 
spite of all their defects and the criticisms to which they have 
been subjected. 

* Learn, said the king. 

That I love not wherefores. 


X 


GEORGE SAND’S PREFACE 


For you all are seekers with me, O my contemporaries ! all 
of you have need of the truth, public and judges, readers and 
critics. In vain do you resist the voices which rise up on 
every side : in the depths of your consciences speak voices much 
more eloquent than mine ; and some of you have condemned me 
for form’s sake, who, in your souls, have felt the same sorrows, 
the same rebellings, the same needs as myself. But, wandering in 
the darkness of doubt, unfortunates that we are ! it often happens 
that we take friends for enemies, and reciprocally. This shall 
not prevent those of us who begin to distinguish the dawn from 
the night, and to love humanity in spite of the errors of men, 
from seeking always and holding firmly in their hands those 
hands which repel and misconstrue them. 

All you who have so often dragged me before the tribunal of 
public opinion with anger, with harshness, with a kind of per- 
sonal, strange, inexplicable hatred ! I shall not summon you to 
the tribunal of posterity. Informed of all the mysteries which 
terrify us, it will cast us all together into the beneficent abyss of 
oblivion. If there remain a feeble trace of our different mani- 
festations, our children will see that some among us who blamed 
the selfishness and apathy of the others, loved them fervently 
and were not seriously hated by them. “ Our fathers were unde- 
cided and unfortunate,” they will say ; “ but they were too near the 
truth not to have felt already warmed by a ray of divine good- 
ness.” 


GEORGE SAND. 


INTRODUCTION. 


A history of the secret societies which have existed from an- 
cient times until now, would be a very interesting and a very 
useful work, but it is beyond our power. It has been attempted 
several times, but whatever may be the merit of the various 
labors undertaken upon this matter, they have not yet thrown 
any great light upon those mysterious associations in which so 
many important truths have been elaborated, mingled with so 
many strange errors. 

Secret societies have hitherto been a necessity of the nations. 
Inequality prevailing in those nations, equality must necessarily 
seek darkness and mystery, in order to labor at its divine work. 
When the holy philosophy of Christianity was proscribed upon 
the Roman soil, it was obliged to hide itself in the catacombs. 

It may be said that not a single injustice, not a single violation 
of the principle of equality is committed in human societies, but 
on the very instant, the germ of a secret society is thus im- 
planted in the world, to repair that injustice and to punish that 
violation of equality. When the patricians of Rome sacrificed 
Tiberius Gracchus, he took a handful of dust and threw it towards 
heaven ; that dust thus thrown towards heaven must have pro- 
duced a secret society, a society of avengers who would labor 
in darkness at the work which was proscribed and martyrized in 
the light of day. 

Why did the Roman empire fall, and why do empires fall, ex- 
cept because under the surface of public society existed obscurely 
all sorts of secret societies, which labored noiselessly, and by de- 
grees destroyed its foundations ? Tfie social edifice still stands 
2 


2 


INTRODUCTION. 


and lifts its dome in air ; a superficial observer thinks it durable and 
solid ; but whether palace or temple, that edifice, sapped and un- 
dermined, will crumble at the first breath. 

Historians have hitherto been too much like that superficial 
observer, whose eye penetrates no deeper than the surface of 
things. How much pains they often take to dress up dead 
bodies ! Why do they not rather employ themselves in penetrat- 
ing the mystery of that which moves and lives within those bodies ; 
in carefully studying that which, though to-day a principle of 
death to public society, will to-morrow be a principle of life to 
this same society ? There are moments in the history of nations, 
when public society exists only nominally, and when there is 
nothing really living but the secret societies hidden in its bosom. 

A large number of secret associations have only an ephemeral 
object, and become extinct almost as soon as they are formed, 
when the object is attained, or appears decidedly unattainable ; 
Others have a persistency which causes them to last for centu- 
ries. That persistency, as well as that passing existence, de- 
pends upon the object which the adepts propose to themselves. 
But, whatever may be that object, and even when the principle 
of association is the broadest possible, the secret society, precisely 
because it is secret and proscribed, must inevitably fall away from 
the truth of its principle. It necessarily is the case, that it re- 
plies to intolerance by intolerance, to the selfishness of public so- 
ciety by an opposing selfishness, to the blind fanaticism which 
repels its ideas, by a fanaticism equally blind. Thence is de- 
rived, in certain secret societies which history has recorded, 
though they are not as yet truly judged, the order of the Temple, 
for example, a double character, which has caused them to be 
attributed to the spirit of evil or to the genius of good, according to 
the aspect which writers have chosen to consider, 

Such is the evil inherent in secret societies. But let open and 
allowed societies cease to accuse their rivals so bitterly for all 
the misfortunes which have befallen them ; secret societies are 
the necessary result of the imperfection of general society. 

Since the ancient rule of castes up to our age, in which every, 
thing tends to their final abolition, men have constantly attempted 
to construct true society. But society has always become caste, 


INTRODUCTION. 


3 


under whatever form it has been manifested in the world. 
Whoso says society, says association, and whoso says association, 
says equality ; for there is no other principle that can unite two 
men, but the principle of reciprocity or equality. But society, 
always created with a view to, and by means of, the principle of 
equality, has always become oppressive and destructive of 
equality. This spirit of caste was a law of nature, a condition 
of existence in all the associations of the past. Of what conse- 
quence are names, of what consequence is it that society be 
called republic, monarchy, aristocracy, church, monachism, bur- 
gership, corporation, according to place and time ? So long as 
public society is not constructed with a view to human equality, 
public society will be caste ; and so long as public society is 
caste, it will engender secret societies. It is for the future to 
realize the work which has so long been germinating in human- 
ity, and which now ferments so energetically in its bosom ; be- 
cause it is for the future to sum up in a universal faith, in a 
universal unity, diversified only in its multiplied forms, all the 
scattered notions, all the incomplete manifestations of eternal truth. 
By the side of the great current followed by the principal social 
and religious ideas, obscure and small streams are formed, in 
infinite numbers, upon either bank. Great truths are moved 
to and fro in this concourse of tributaries, at one time repelled, 
at another absorbed by the parent stream. The idea must as- 
sume all forms, all directions, before being united with the 
ocean around which all the families of the future society will 
take up their abode. 

Such appears to be the legitimation in the plans of Providence, 
of secret societies so violently anathematized by historians com- 
missioned by the various tyrannies which have hitherto oppressed 
the world. In this manner they can be justified in principle 
without therefore attacking general society. Prevailing ideas 
having always engendered numerous sects, and public doctrine 
having always endeavored to stifle particular doctrines, it is 
evident that every difference of opinion, whether in faith or in 
politics, must necessarily manifest itself in a secret society, 
awaiting the broad daylight, or the extinction of forgetfulness. 
Thence, I repeat, that multitude of obscure councils, of abortive 


INTRODUCTION. 


conspiracies, of occult sciences, of schisms, and of mysteries, the 
monuments of which are still, for the most part, concealed in 
a subterranean world, if they be not buried there for ever. The 
discovery would nevertheless be very precious, if not on account 
of these things themselves, at least on account of the light which 
those that float upon the surface would receive from them. The 
affiliation which would be established between all secret societies 
would be a new key, with which to penetrate the recesses of his- 
tory, and the great principles of truth would thence derive an 
immense authority. But it is very difficult, I acknowledge, to 
bring together the threads of this vast net-work. We find it 
difficult even to establish the true parentage of contemporaneous 
secret societies, such as Illuminism, Masonry, Carbonarism. 
There are others which, even now, prevail in all their vigor 
among a considerable portion of society, and the genealogy of 
which will be still more uncertain. I refer to the association of 
workmen known under the generic name of companionship — 
Trades- Unions. 

It is well known that a large portion of the laboring classes are 
divided into different secret societies, not acknowledged by the 
laws, but tolerated by the police, and which take the title of 
Devoirs (Duties). Devoir, in this sense, is synonymous with doc- 
trine. The great, if not the only doctrine of these associations, 
is that of the very principle of association. Perhaps originally, 
this doctrine, now isolated, was supported by a code of religious 
axioms, of dogmas and symbols inspired by the spirit of the time. 
The various rites of these Devoirs go back, in fact, to the middle 
ages, according to some authorities ; to the remotest antiquity, 
according to others. The symbol of the temple of Solomon is 
the principal one in most, as it also is in Masonry. Moreover, the 
necessity of forming themselves into a corporate body, and of main- 
taining the privileges of industry, may, in the earliest times, have 
given rise to these fraternal associations among the laboring classes. 
They may, for the same reason, have been perpetuated through 
the ages, and have transmitted, each to the other, a certain plan 
of organization. But diversity of interests produced secessions, 
and consequently differences in form. Moreover, the institutions 
of these societies have been affected by contemporaneous institu- 


INTRODUCTION. 


5 


tions. In some, nevertheless, certain texts of the ancient law 
have been preserved until now, and are found in the new regu- 
lations. Thus, the Devoir of Solomon prescribes, as a law of 
Solomon, that its adepts shall go to church on Sunday. Many 
ancient Devoirs are lost , as the Companions say ; that of the 
tailors, for example. Others have been formed since the French 
Revolution. Various bodies which, up to that time, had not 
been formed into societies, have adopted the titles, the signs and 
the customs of the ancient Devoirs. The latter repelled them, 
and even now, do not accept them all, attributing to themselves 
an exclusive right to bear the glorious insignia, and the sacred 
titles of their predecessors. The Companionship confers upon 
the initiated a nobility of which they are proud and jealous to 
excess. Thence violent wars between the Devoirs, a whole 
epopceia of conflicts and conquests, a kind of church militant, a 
fanaticism full of heroic dramas and a barbarous poetry, of songs 
of war and love, of memorials of glory, and chivalric friendships. 
Each Devoir has its Iliad and its Martyrology. 

M. Lautier published in Avignon, in 1838, an epic poem, very 
well conducted, respecting the persecutions, in the midst of which 
the Devoir of the shoemakers had sustained itself triumphantly. 
There are some very beautiful verses in this poem ; which fact 
does not prevent the proletary bard from making excellent 
boots, and fitting his readers to their great satisfaction. 

An entirely new literature might be created with the manners 
of the people, so little known to the other classes. That litera- 
ture has its origin in the very bosom of the people ; it will come 
forth with brilliancy before long. It is there that the romantic 
muse will recover her strength, a muse eminently revolutionary, 
which, since her appearance in literature, is searching for her 
path and her family. In the strong race will she find that 
intellectual youth which is necessary to enable her to take her 
flight. 

The author of the following story does not pretend to have 
made this discovery. If he be one of those who have foreseen it, 
he is no further advanced on that account, for he does not feel 
either young enough or strong enough to give an impulse to se- 
rious or popular literature, such as he conceives it. He has 


6 


INTRODUCTION. 


attempted to color his picture with a reflection which can be seen, 
but which does not permit itself to be seized by weak hands. In 
tracing this sketch, he has become convinced of a truth, which 
he long since felt : which is that, in art, the simple is the greatest 
to attempt and the most difficult to attain. 

Whatever merit and importance he may attribute to this work, 
the author thinks it his duty to declare that he derived the idea 
from one of the most interesting books he has met with for a 
long time. It is a little 18mo. entitled the Book of the Compa- 
nionship , and recently published by Avignonnais-la-Vertu, jour- 
neyman joiner. This work, from which the National has ex- 
tracted almost literally, without credit, in a feuilleton filled with 
new and curious details, contains all that an initiate of the Compan- 
nionship could reveal without betraying the secrets of the doctrine. 
It was composed simply and without art, under the influence of the 
most healthy and the most upright ideas. The object of the writer 
was not to amuse idlers ; he had one altogether more serious. For 
ten years his soul has been devoted to one idea, that of reconciling 
all the Devoirs among themselves, of putting a stop to their bar- 
barous customs, their jealousies, their vanities, their battles. In- 
sensible to the poetry of conflicts, endowed with an apostolic zeal, 
persevering, active, indefatigable, governed, and, as it were, assail- 
ed at every moment by the feelings of human fraternity, he has 
endeavored to make his brothers, the Companions of the Tour of 
France , understand the beauty of the idea born in his breast. 
After having written his book, he started on a pilgrimage of five 
hundred leagues, during which he spread his idea and his feeling 
among all the workmen whom he could touch and convince. 
His evangelic mission has not been unsuccessful. In all parts 
of France he has awakened sympathies and formed bonds of 
friendly relation with the most intelligent adepts of the different 
industrial societies. A stranger to politics, and pursuing without 
mystery the most exalted of enterprises, he assumed for his task 
the realization of the device of St. John : Let us love one another. 

Under the influence of the same feeling, the Companion 1 of the 
Tour of France has been written, or more properly, attempted. 


1 Compagnon means both Companion and Journeyman. 


INTRODUCTION. 


7 


Some journals, too benevolent towards the author, and doubtless 
ill-informed, announced, instead of this novel, a complete work, 
an extended and important labor. The author of Andre and 
Mauprat declines. The task of writing the modern history of the 
proletary is too great for him, and he gives back the honor of the 
enterprise to those grave personages who wished to invest him 
with it. 

[See Appendix for an account of the origin of Companionshin or 
Trades-Unions.] 









THE COMPANION 

OF THE 

TOUR OF FRANCE. 


CHAPTER I. 

The village of Villepreux was, according to M. Lerebours, the 
most beautiful spot in the department of Loir and Cher ; and 
the most capable man of the said village was, in the secret per- 
suasion of M. Lerebours, M. Lerebours himself, when the noble 
family of Villepreux, which he represented, did not occupy their 
majestic and antique manor of Villepreux. In the absence of 
the illustrious personages composing that family, M. Lerebours 
was the only one in the village who could write orthography ir- 
reproachably. He had a son who was also a capable man. 
There was but one voice on this subject, or rather there were 
two — the father’s and the son’s — though the wits of the place 
did pretend that they were too honest people to have stolen the 
Holy Ghost between them. 

There are few travelling clerks frequenting the roads of So- 
logne to offer their merchandise from chateau to chateau, few 
drovers going with their cattle and provisions from fair to fair, who 
have not, on foot, on horseback, or in stage-wagon, met, were it but 
once in their lives, M. Lerebours, steward, manager, intendant, 
right-hand-man of the Villepreux. I call to witness those who 
have had the happiness to know him : was he not a small man, 
quite dried up, very yellow, very active, at first sombre and 
taciturn, but by degrees becoming excessively communicative ? 

2 * 


10 


THE COMPANION 


The reason was, that when in company with strangers to the coun- 
try, he was possessed with only one idea, which was this : Here 
are people that do not know who I am ! Then came this second 
reflection, no less painful than the first : There are, then, people 
that can be ignorant who I am ! And when those persons did 
not appear entirely unworthy to appreciate him, he added 
in conclusion : It is, nevertheless, necessary that these honest 
people should learn from me who I am. 

Then he tried them upon the subject of agriculture, not hesi- 
tating, in case of need, to draw their attention by some enormous 
paradox ; for he was a corresponding member of the agricultural 
society of his shire-town, and he was by no means more proud 
on that account. If he succeeded in eliciting questions, he did 
not fail to say : I have tried that experiment upon our estates. 
And if asked respecting the quality of the soil, he replied : 
We have every kind ; our estates are four leagues square ; we 
have therefore dry, wet, moist, heavy, light, &c. 

In Sologne one is not very rich with four leagues of land, and 
the estate of Villepreux produced no more than thirty thousand 
francs a year ; but the Villepreux family had two others of a 
smaller income, which were leased, and which M. Lerebours 
visited once a year. He had, therefore, a triple occupation, a 
triple importance, a triple capacity, and everlasting subjects of 
conversation and agricultural demonstrations. 

When he had produced his first effect, as he wished nothing 
better than to be modest, and as the avowal of a high position is 
always rather difficult, he hesitated some moments, and then 
ventured the name of Villepreux ; if his auditor was sufficiently 
impressed beforehand with the importance of that name, M. 
Lerebours said, casting down his eyes : I have charge of the 
concerns of the family. If that auditor was so much his own 
enemy as to ask what the family was, Oh, then, woe to him ! 
for M. Lerebours undertook to inform him ; and there were in- 
terminable genealogies, enumerations of alliances and mis- 
alliances, a list of cousins and second-cousins ; and then statistics 
of the estates, and then a statement of the improvements effected 
by himself, &c., &c. When a diligence had the happiness to 
contain M. Lerebours, no jolts nor falls could disturb the delicious 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


11 


slumber into which he plunged the travellers. He entertained 
them with the Villepreux family from the first change of horses 
to the last. He would have gone round the world talking of the 
family. 

When M. Lerebours went to Paris, he passed his time there 
very disagreeably ; for, in that nest of mad-caps, nobody seemed 
to care for the Villepreux family. He did not understand why 
people did not salute him in the streets ; or why, on coming out 
of the theatre, the (^owd almost smothered, without ceremony, a 
man so necessary as he to the prosperity of the Villepreux. 

It was of no use to ask him for moral data respecting the 
family , for distinctions between its members, or sketches of their 
different characters. Whether from discretion, or inaptitude for 
that kind of observation, he could say nothing of those illustrious 
personages, except that this one was more or less economical, or 
understood business better than that one. But the quality and 
importance of a man were measured, in his view, only by the 
number of crowns he was to inherit ; and when asked if made- 
moiselle Villepreux was amiable and pretty, he answered by a 
computation of the value of her dowry. He could not understand 
how any one should be curious to know more. 

One morning, M. Lerebours rose even earlier than usual — 
which was hardly possible, unless he rose, as they say, the day 
before — and, descending the principal and only street of the 
village, called Rue royale (Royal street), he turned to the right, 
entered a neat little lane, and stopped before a house of modest 
aspect. 

The sun hardly began to gild the roofs, the barely awakened 
cocks crowed in falsetto, and the children, in their shirts upon 
the thresholds, finished dressing in the street. Still the mournful 
sound of the plane and the sharp groaning of the saw already re- 
sounded in the workshop of father Huguenin ; the apprentices 
were already at their posts, and the master already scolded them 
with a fatherly roughness. 

“ So early abroad, sir manager ?” said the old joiner, raising 
his cap of blue cotton. 

M. Lerebours made a mysterious and imposing sign. The 
joiner having approached : 


12 


THE COMPANION 


“ Let us go into your garden,” said the steward to him, “ I 
have important matters to speak about. Here, my head is bro- 
ken ; your apprentices seem to do it on purpose ; they hammer 
as if they were deaf.’* 

They crossed the back-shop, then a small court, and entered 
an enclosure of fruit-trees, the flavor of whose fruit had not been 
corrected by grafting, nor their vigorous forms changed by the 
pruning-knife ; some thyme and sage, mingled with a few roots of 
pinks and gilliflowers, perfumed the morning ^ir ; a thick bushy 
hedge sheltered the promenaders from the inspection of curious 
neighbors. 

It was there that M. Lerebours, redoubling his solemnity, in- 
formed master Huguenin, the joiner, of the expected arrival o£ 
the family. 

Master Huguenin did not appear so much overpowered as he 
should have been in order to please the intendant. 

“Well,” said he, “that is your business, M. Lerebours; it 
does not concern me, unless there is some floor to raise, or some 
wardrobe to put in order.” 

“ There is a matter of much greater importance, my friend,” 
returned the intendant. “ The family have conceived the idea 
(I should say, if I dared, the singular idea) of having the chapel 
repaired, and I come to see if you are able or if you are willing 
to be employed.” 

“ The chapel !” said father Huguenin, quite astonished ; 
“they wish to restore the chapel ? Well, that is very strange ! 
I thought they were not devout ; but it is necessary, it would 
appear, in these days. They say that the king Louis XVIII — ” 

“ I have not come to talk politics with you,” replied Lere- 
bours, frowning ; “ I only wish to know if you are not too much 
of a J acobin to work upon the chapel of the chateau and to be 
well paid by the family.” 

“ Oh ho, I have already worked for the good God ; but ex- 
plain yourself,” said father Huguenin, scratching his head. 

“ I will explain in due season,” replied the steward ; “ all 
that I can tell you is, that I have been directed to find skilful 
workmen either at Tours or at Blois. But if you are able to 
make the repairs I will give you the preference.” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


13 


This opening gave great pleasure to father Huguenin ; but as 
a prudent man, and knowing well with what kind of a steward 
he had to deal, he was careful not to show it. 

“ I thank you heartily for having thought of me, M. Lere- 
bours,” replied he ; “ but I have a great deal of work on hand 
at this moment, you see ! My business is good, and I do all the 
work of the district, because I am the only one of my trade. If 
I should undertake the work of the chateau, I should dissatisfy 
both town and country, and a new joiner might be called in who 
would take away all my custom.” 

“ Still it is a good job to put into your pocket in a year — in six 
months perhaps — a good round sum in cash. I don’t doubt you 
have a large custom, master Huguenin, but all your customers 
don’t pay.” 

“ Excuse me,” said the joiner, wounded in his democratic 
pride, “ they are all honest people, who order only what they can 
pay for.” 

“But who do not pay quickly,” returned the steward with a 
malicious smile. 

“ Those who delay,” replied Huguenin, “ I am quite willing 
to give credit to. We can always have an understanding with 
our equals ; and I also sometimes make them wait for my work 
longer than I could wish.” 

“ I see,” said the steward calmly, “ that my offer does not 
tempt you. I am sorry to have troubled you, father Huguenin ;” 
— and, raising his cap, he pretended to be going, but slowly ; for 
he knew well that the mechanic would not let him depart thus. 

In fact, the conversation was renewed at the end of the alley. 

“ If I knew exactly what was wanted,” said Huguenin, affect- 
ing an uncertainty which he did not experience : “ but perhaps 
it is above my powers — it is old wainscotting ; in old times they 
worked more finely than now — and the pay was doubtless in 
proportion to the pains. Now we have to work more time and 
get less pay. We have not always the necessary tools — and 
then the nobility are less rich and therefore less magnificent — ” 

“ That is not always the case with the family of Villepreux,” 
said Lerebours, drawing himself up. “ I take that upon myself, 
and I think I have never wanted workmen when I wished get 


14 


THE COMPANION 


anything done. Well, I must go to Valenqay. There are good 
joiners there, I am told.” 

“ If the work was merely of the nature of the pulpit, which I 
fashioned last year for the parish church — ” said the joiner, 
adroitly referring to the excellent job he had executed the pre- 
ceding year. 

“ It will perhaps be more difficult,” returned the intendant, 
who had carefully examined the parish pulpit on the day before, 
and who knew very well that it was without fault. 

And as he was still going, father Huguenin decided to say to him : 

“Well, M. Lerebours, I will go and see that wainscotting ; 
for, to tell you the truth, it is so long since I have been there, that 
I do not remember very well what it is.” 

“ Come, then,” replied the steward, who became more reserved 
in proportion as the other became persuaded ; “ looking costs 
nothing.” 

“ And binds to nothing,” replied the joiner. “ Well, I will 
go, M. Lerebours.” 

“ As you please, master,” said the other ; “ but remember that 
I have not a day to lose. In order to obey the commands of the 
family, I must come to some conclusion this evening, and if you 
have not done the same, I shall go to Valenqay. ” 

“ The devil ! you are in a great hurry,” said Huguenin, quite 
moved, “ well, I will go to-day.” 

“ You had better come at once, while I have time to accom- 
pany you,” returned the impassive steward. 

“ Let us go then, so be it !” said the joiner. “ But I must 
take my son ; for he knows how to make a draft at sight ; and 
as we shall work together — ” 

“ But is your son a good workman ?” asked M. Lerebours. 

“Even if he were not so good as his father,” replied the 
joiner, “ does he not work under my eyes, and according to my 
orders ?” 

M. Lerebours knew very well that the younger Huguenin was 
a very desirable person to employ. He waited for the two me- 
chanics to put on their vests and to furnish themselves with 
square, rule, and pencil. After which the three started, saying 
little, and each keeping on the defensive. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


15 


CHAPTER II. 

Pierre Huguenin, the master joiner’s son, was the handsomest 
youth for twenty leagues around. His features had the noble- 
ness and regularity of statuary ; he was large and well made in 
person ; his feet, hands, and head were very small, which is re- 
markable in a man of the people, and very compatible with great 
muscular strength in handsome races; finally his large blue 
eyes, shaded by black eyelashes, and the delicate coloring of his 
cheeks, gave a gentle and pensive expression to that head which 
would not have been unworthy of Michael Angelo’s chisel. 

What will appear singular, and what is nevertheless positively 
true is, that Pierre Huguenin was not conscious of his beauty, 
and that neither the men nor the women of his village had any 
more idea of it than he. The reason is not that in any class 
man is born devoid of the sense of the beautiful, but that this 
sense needs to be developed by the study of art and the habit of 
comparison. The free and cultivated life of persons in easy 
circumstances brings them incessantly into the presence of mas- 
ter-pieces of art, or into relation with types which they see 
appreciated about them by the spirit of criticism diffused through- 
out society. Their judgment is thus formed ; and were it only 
from the contact of contemporaneous art, which, poor or flourish- 
ing, always preserves a reflection of eternal beauty, they open 
their eyes without effort to an ideal world, upon the threshold 
of which the repressed genius of the poor man beats for a long 
while, and is too often broken without being able to penetrate. 

Thus the first laborer, with a bright complexion, broad shoul- 
ders, and a quick eye, had more success in the village fetes, and 
made the girls laugh and dance more than did the noble and 
calm Huguenin. But the citizens’ ladies looked after him, saying, 
“ Mon Dieu ! who is that handsome young man ?” And two 
young painters who passed through the village of Villepreux on 


1G 


THE COMPANION 


their way to Valenqay were so struck by the beauty of the join- 
er’s apprentice, that they requested his permission to take his 
portrait ; but he refused quite drily, thinking the request a poor 
joke on their part. 

Father Huguenin, who was himself a superb old man, and 
who did not lack good sense, had not always perceived the high 
intelligence and ideal beauty of his son. He saw in him a well- 
built youth, industrious and quiet, a good assistant in fine ; but 
though he had been a reformer in his time, he was by no means 
pleased with youthful liberal ideas, and he considered Pierre far 
too much in love with novelties. He had heard Rome and 
Sparta spoken of by the village orators during the republic, and 
at that time he himself had adopted the surname of Cassius , 
which he had prudently laid aside on the return of the Bourbons. 
iZe therefore believed in a former golden age of liberty and 
equality ; and since the fall of the Convention, thought assuredly 
that the world had for ever turned its back upon truth. Justice 
died in ’93, he said, and all that you invent henceforth for its re- 
suscitation, will only bury it still deeper. 

He had therefore the whim of old men of all ages, he did not 
believe in a better future. His old age was a continued groan- 
ing, and sometimes a bitterness, from which his natural goodness 
and the serenity of his conscience hardly preserved him. 

He had educated his son in the purest democratic sentiments ; 
but he had given him this faith as a mystery, thinking that it 
could no longer produce anything, and that it was necessary to 
preserve it one’s self, as one preserves the feeling of one’s own 
dignity while undergoing an unjust degradation. This passive 
part could not long be sufficient to Pierre’s active intelligence. 
Soon he wished to learn more of his age and his country than he 
could learn in his family and village. At seventeen he was 
seized with that desire for travelling, which, each year, carries 
away from their homes numerous phalanxes of young workmen 
to cast them into the adventurous life, the travelling apprentice- 
ship, which is called the Tour of France. To the vague desire of 
knowing and understanding the movement of social life, was 
added the noble ambition of acquiring talent in his profession. 
He saw well that there were surer and quicker theories than the 


OP THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


17 


patient routine followed by his father and the elders of the coun- 
try. A journeyman stonecutter, who passed through the village, 
had made him perceive the advantages of science by executing 
before him, on a wall, some designs which simplified, in an ex- 
traordinary manner, the slow and monotonous practice of his la- 
bor. From that moment he had resolved to study draughting, 
that is linear designing applicable to architecture, carpentry, and 
joiners’ work. He had therefore asked permission of his father 
to make his tour of France. But he had met with a great obsta- 
cle in the contempt which father Huguenin professed for theory. 
Almost a year’s perseverance had been necessary in order to 
overcome the obstinacy of the old mechanic. Father Huguenin 
had also the worst possible opinion of the mysterious initiations 
of the Companionship. He pretended that all those secret 
societies of workmen, united under different names in De- 
voirs, were only associations of bandits or charlatans, who, un- 
der pretext of learning more than others, spent the best years of 
their youth rambling up and down the streets of the cities, filling 
the drinking shops with their fanatical cries, and sprinkling the 
dust of the roads with their blood, shed for foolish questions of 
precedence. 

There was a true side to these accusations ; but they were so 
contrary to the esteem with which the Companionship was 
looked upon in the country, that according to all appearances, 
father Huguenin had some personal reason for complaint. Some 
of the elders of the village told that he had been seen to return 
home one evening covered with blood, his head broken and his 
clothes torn. He had been quite ill in consequence of this ad- 
venture, but had never been willing to give any explanation re- 
specting it. His pride refused to confess that he had been over- 
powered by numbers. It was strongly suspected that he had 
fallen into an ambuscade, laid by some companions of the Devoir 
for certain rivals, and that he had been the victim of a mistake. 
The fact is, that from that time he had cherished a warm resent- 
ment, and professed a persevering aversion against the Compa- 
nionship. • 

However this may have been, young Pierre’s vocation was 
stronger than the thought of all the dangers and sufferings pre- 


18 


THE COMPANION 


dieted by his father. His resolution conquered, and one fine 
morning master Cassius Huguenin was compelled to give him 
permission to depart. If he had been guided by the feelings of 
his heart alone, he would have furnished him with a good round 
sum, in order to render the enterprise agreeable and easy ; but 
flattering himself that poverty would bring him back to the fold 
quicker than all exhortations, he gave him only thirty francs, 
and forbade his writing for more. He promised himself inward- 
ly that he would answer his first request, but thought to frighten 
him by this appearance of rigor. The method did not succeed. 
Pierre departed, and did not return for four years. During this 
long pilgrimage he had not asked a single sou from his father, 
and in his letters had confined himself to inquiries respecting his 
health, and wishes for his prosperity, without ever informing him 
of his labors, or of any of the vicissitudes of his wandering ex- 
istence. Father Huguenin was both uneasy and mortified at 
this ; he had a great desire to give expression to that feeling of 
tenderness which would have disarmed the young man’s pride, 
but vexation always prevailed when he took up his pen, and he 
could not help writing in a tone of severe remonstrance, for 
which he reproached himself as soon as the letter had gone. 
Pierre testified neither vexation nor discouragement at this. He 
replied in a respectful manner, full of affection, but he was im- 
movable ; and the curate, who assisted the old joiner to read his 
letters, made him remark, not without pleasure, that his son’s 
handwriting became more and more fine and flowing, that he 
expressed himself in chosen terms, and that there was in his 
style a measure, a nobleness, and even an eloquence, which al- 
ready raised him above himself and all the old workmen of the 
country whom he called his equals. 

At last, Pierre returned one fine spring morning, about three 
weeks before M. Lerebours’ visit and communication. Father 
Huguenin, somewhat old, rather worn, very tired of working with- 
out respite, and especially saddened by constantly struggling in 
his workshop with rough and intractable apprentices, but too proud 
to complain, and affecting cheerfulness which he too often did 
not feel, saw enter a handsome young man whom he did not 
know. Pierre had grown a full head taller ; his bearing was 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


19 


noble and assured ; his clear and pure complexion, which the 
sun had not tanned, was set off by a slight black beard. He was 
dressed as a mechanic, but with a scrupulous neatness, and bore 
upon his broad shoulders a well-rounded bag of boar’s skin, 
which indicated a good provision of clothes. He bowed smiling 
as he crossed the threshold, and taking pleasure in the astonish- 
ment and uncertainty of his father, asked him for the direction 
of M. Huguenin, master-joiner. Father Huguenin was thrilled 
by the sound of that manly voice, which confusedly recalled to 
him that of his little Pierre, but which had changed like the rest. 
He remained for some time speechless ; and as Pierre seemed 
ready to withdraw, that, thought he, is a good-looking chap, and 
certainly resembles my ungrateful son ; and a sigh escaped from 
his chest ; but Pierre at once rushed into his arms, and they 
held each other embraced for a long while, neither daring to say 
a word, for fear the other should see his eyes filled with tears. 

During the three weeks since the prodigal son’s return to the 
peaceful habits of the paternal roof, the old joiner had expe- 
rienced a gentle joy, mingled with some feelings of anxiety and 
uncertainty. He saw well that Pierre was steady in his con- 
duct, sensible in his words, assiduous at labor. But had he ac- 
quired that superiority of talent which he so ambitiously desired 
before his departure ? Father Huguenin ardently desired that 
this might be so ; and yet, in consequence of a contradictory 
feeling natural to man and especially to an artist, he was afraid 
of finding his son wiser than himself. At first, he expected to 
see him make a display of his science, assume the tone of a mas- 
ter with his pupils, turn the workshop upside down, and request 
him, in a dictatorial tone, to change all his old and faithful tools, 
for others of a new make, to which his old hands were not ac- 
customed. But matters passed quite otherwise ; Pierre said not 
a word of his studies, and when his father wished to interrogate 
him, he eluded all questions by saying that he had done his best 
to learn, and would do his best to practise ; he went to work on 
the very day of his arrival, and received his father’s orders like 
a common journeyman. He took good care not to criticize the 
work of the apprentices, and left the supreme direction of the 
shop to him whose it was of right. Father Huguenin, who had 


20 


THE COMPANION 


prepared himself for a desperate struggle, felt quite at his ease ; 
and triumphing inwardly, he was satisfied with muttering several 
times between his teeth, that the world was not so much changed 
as people said, that the old fashions were always the best, and 
that people must acknowledge it at last, even after flattering 
themselves that they could reform everything. Pierre pretend- 
ed not to hear ; he continued his task, and his father was com- 
pelled to declare that it was executed with an unexceptionable 
exactness and an extraordinary rapidity. 

“ What I like,” said he from time to time, “ is that you have 
learnt to work quickly, and yet none the less carefully.” 

“ If you are satisfied, all goes well,” replied Pierre. 

When this anxiety of the old joiner was entirely dissipated, he 
felt tormented in another manner. He required an open triumph, 
and he was hurt that Pierre did not reply to his insinuations 
when he gave him to understand that his tour of France, without 
being prejudicial to him, had not had all the advantages which 
he had boasted to derive from it ; that he had discovered nothing 
wonderful ; that, in a word, he might have learnt at home all 
that he had gone so far to seek. A kind of vexation insensibly 
took possession of him, and was sufficient to render him thought- 
ful and distrusting. 

“ My boy must be hiding some secret from me,” said he in a 
low voice to his gossip the locksmith Lacrete. “ I would bet 
that he knows more than he shows. One would say that he is 
discharging a debt in working for me, but that he reserves his 
talents for the time when he shall work for his own account, in 
order to crush me completely.” 

“Well,” replied father Lacrete, “so much the better for you; 
you will rest then, for. you have only this son, and there will be 
no need for you to trouble yourself about his establishment ; he 
will secure a good standing alone, and you will at last live joy- 
ously on your income. Are you not rich enough to leave busi- 
ness, and would you contend for the custom of the village against 
your only child ?” 

“ Certainly not,” replied the joiner, « I am not ambitious, and 
I love my son as myself ; but, you see, there is self-love ! Do 
you think that, at sixty, you could be resigned to see your repu- 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


21 


tation eclipsed by a young man who was not even willing to take 
your lessons, considering them unworthy of his genius ? Do you 
think it would be well on the part of a son, to say to everybody : 
see, I work better than my father, therefore my father was a 
know-nothing V 9 

While reasoning thus, the old joiner fretted inwardly. He 
tried to find something to reprove in his son’s workmanship, and 
if he discovered the least sign of embellishment in the pieces he 
executed, he criticised it bitterly. Pierre showed no vexation. 
With a stroke of his plane he quickly removed the ornament which 
seemed to have escaped his hand in spite of him. He was re- 
solved to suffer everything, to allow himself to be humiliated a 
thousand times rather than have a dispute with his father. He 
knew him too well not to have foreseen that he must not attempt 
to surpass him. Content with having acquired the talents of 
which he had been ambitious, he waited for the opportunity of 
causing them to be appreciated to come of itself, and he knew 
that it must come soon. In fact, it presented itself on the day 
when the steward conducted the two joiners to the chateau in or- 
der to examine the work in question. 


22 


THE COMPANION 


CHAPTER III. 

They were introduced into an ancient hall, which had served 
successively as a chapel, a library, a theatre, and a stable, ac- 
cording to the vicissitudes of the nobility, or the tastes of the dif- 
ferent owners of the chateau. It was situated in a building more 
ancient than the others, composing the vast and imposing manor- 
house of Villepreux. It was of a fine gorgeous Gothic style, 
and the arches of the ceiling showed that it had been consecrated 
to religious worship. But in changing its use at various epochs, 
its ornaments had been changed, and the last traces of repairs 
that remained were wainscottings of the fifteenth century, 
which in the eighteenth had been covered with boards and paint- 
ed canvas in order to play pastorals, the opera of the Huron and 
the Melanie of M. de la Harpe. A remnant of this scenery, 
daubed with faded garlands and reddish cupids, had been taken 
away ; and from a certain apartment situated in an adjacent tur- 
ret a door, long since walled up, was found to open upon the 
great hall, then cleared of its tinsel. Now, this turret was a fa- 
vorite place of resort with a certain person of the family. As 
soon as a new exit was discovered from that apartment, and a 
new use for that door, it was desirable that it should communi- 
cate with the chapel ; there was but one thing wanting, which 
was a staircase. Originally the door opened upon a gallery in 
which the chatelain and his family came to hear the services, 
and the turret served as an oratory. Under the regency, the 
gallery was used to support the back scene of the theatre, and 
the turret was at one time the green-room of amateur actors, at 
another the dressing-room of some prima donna of distinction. 
To communicate with the stage, use had been made of one of 
those rolling staircases, called step-ladders in joiner’s phrase, which 
are often used in libraries and painters’ studios, for the purpose of 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


23 


reaching the upper shelves or the higher parts of large can- 
vasses. It was a rough temporary piece of workmanship, and 
could be moved to suit the occasions of the scene-shifter. The 
family of Villepreux, able to appreciate the beauty of the wains- 
cotting, despised and mutilated by the preceding generation, had 
resolved to turn to account that vast hall, abandoned, since the 
revolution, to rats and owls. 

The following was their determination : 

The ex-chapel of the middle ages, ex-library under Louis 
XIV., ex-theatre under the regency, ex-stable during the emi- 
gration, should serve henceforth as a studio for painting, or more 
properly, as a museum. There should be collected all the old 
vases and rare furniture, all the family portraits and old pictures, 
all the valuable books, all the engravings — in a word, all the cu- 
riosities scattered throughout the chateau. There was room for 
all this and for all the tables, models, and easels they might wish 
to add. 

The part which had been by turns the choir of the chapel and 
the stage of the theatre, should resume, as a relic, its semi-cir- 
cular form and its appearance of a choir, covered with sculp- 
tured wood- work. The old door of the turret which the masons 
had just unmasked, should open as before upon a gallery ; but 
that gallery, furnished with a balustrade, should serve as land- 
ing place to a winding staircase, for which several designs had 
been attempted, the most convenient of which was to be chosen. 

This chapel, staircase, and turret will be so important in the 
course of our recital, that we have endeavored to present a pic- 
ture of them to the reader’s mind. We must add that the build- 
ing referred to was situated between a part of the park, where 
the walks were overgrown with vegetation, and a little court or 
enclosure which had been by turns a cemetery, garden, and pre- 
serve, but was now impassable and obstructed by ruins. It was 
therefore the most silent and least frequented place of the cha- 
teau, a philosophical retreat, or an artistic laboratory which it 
was desired to cleanse and to restore, but to preserve mysterious 
and secluded, either to labor there without distraction, or to with- 
draw from unwelcome visitors. 


24 


THE COMPANION 


It was towards this solitary place that M. Lerebours conduct- 
ed the two joiners, one calm, the other striving to appear so. 

But at first, Pierre thought neither of his father nor of himself. 
The love of his profession, which he understood as an artist, was 
the only feeling that took possession of him when he entered that 
ancient hall, a real monument of the joiner’s art. He stopped 
upon the threshold, seized with a deep respect, for no soul is 
more given to veneration than that of the conscientious work- 
man. Then he advanced slowly and went through the whole 
with an unequal step, now hurrying to examine the details, now 
stopping to admire the effect. A holy joy shone in his face, his 
half-opened mouth did not utter a single word, and his father 
looked at him with astonishment, half understanding his trans- 
port, and asking himself what thought could so affect him, as to 
make him appear proud, bold, and taller by a whole head than 
usual. As to the steward, he was incapable of conceiving any- 
thing of this ecstasy, and as the two joiners kept silence, he de- 
termined to open the conversation. 

“ You see, my friends,” said he to them, with that benignant 
tone which was in him the precursor of a fit of stinginess, “ that 
there is not so much work here as might be supposed. I will 
observe that the friezes and figures being out of your line, we 
shall have turners and sculptors in wood come from Paris to 
mend such as are broken and to restore those which have disap- 
peared. Thus you will have only the larger pieces ; you will 
have to put pieces into the injured panels, to close the disjointed 
parts, to make here and there some mouldings, to insert bits into 
the cornices, &c. I think you can make those ova well. You, 
master Pierre, who have travelled, will not be embarrassed by 
the wreathed balusters, will you ?” and the steward accompanied 
these impertinent doubts with a smile, half paternal, half dis- 
dainful. 

The elder Huguenin, who was enough of a workman to un- 
derstand the difficulty of the work, in proportion as he examined 
it, frowned at this direct address to the talents of his son. At 
the moment he was still divided between the secret jealousy of 
an artist and the proud hope of a father. His brow cleared 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


25 


when Pierre, who had not seemed to listen to M. Lerebours, re- 
plied, in a decided tone, 

“ Sir Steward, I have learned in my travels all that I could ; 
but there is nothing in these ova, in these wreaths, and in the 
connexion of all these pieces, which my father cannot undertake 
and properly execute. As to the figures and the delicate orna- 
ments,” added he, lowering his voice with a feeling of secret 
modesty, “ they would be a task to tempt us both ; for it is a 
beautiful work, and there would be great glory in accomplishing 
it. But it would require a great deal of time, perhaps we should 
not have all the necessary tools, and we certainly could not find 
journeymen in the country to second us. Therefore we will 
keep to our business. Now will you please to show us the situ- 
ation and plan of the staircase of which you spoke ?” 

At the bottom of the chapel, the little door to which we have 
referred, mysteriously buried in the thickness of the wall and 
covered with a piece of old tapestry, had only for a landing- 
place a few worm-eaten boards, the last remains of the gallery. 

“ It is here,” said M. Lerebours. “ As there is no recess for 
a staircase in the wall, an exterior one must be made entirely 
of wood and turning in spiral. Look and take your measures, 
if you wish. There is a ladder you can use.” 

Pierre took the ladder and ascended to the gallery, which was 
only twenty feet above the floor. He raised the screen, and ad- 
mired the exquisite work of the carved door, as well as the 
architectural ornaments of gracefully winding fillets which en- 
closed the casings and the panels. 

“ This door must also be repaired,” said he, “ for the arms 
which form the centre of the medallions have been broken.” 

“ Yes, in the revolution,” replied the steward, turning his 
eyes away with a hypocritical air ; u and that was a great bar- 
barism, for it must have been the work of a skilful artist, 
doubtless.” 

Father Huguenin’s cheeks became of a bright red. He well 
knew the Vandal who had formerly given the best stroke of a 
hatchet to that devastation. 

“ Times have changed,” said he, with a smile in which malice 
prevailed over confusion ; “ and armorial bearings also. In 
3 


26 


THE COMPANION 


those days people broke everything, and never thought they were 
cutting out work for the future.” 

“ That’s not so bad for you,” said the intendant, with that 
cold and sharp laugh with which he always accompanied what 
he was pleased to call his sallies of gaiety. 

“ Nor for you either, M. Lerebours,” replied the old joiner. 
“ If these doors had not been burst open, you would not now 
have the 'keys; if this chateau had not been sold, the younger 
branch of the Villepreux would not have made such a good bar- 
gain in buying it for assignats of the elder branch, and would 
not be so rich as it is.” 

“ The Villepreux family has always been rich,” said M. Le- 
rebours, in a haughty tone ; “ and before buying this estate it 
was not, I believe, upon the pavement.” 

“ Bah !” replied the elder Huguenin, in a bantering tone ; 
“ on foot, on horseback, or in coach, we are all upon this poor 
pavement of the good God !” 

During this digression, Pierre, still examining the door, endea- 
vored to open it, in order to see both sides. M. Lerebours 
stopped him. 

“ No one enters there,” said he, in a dictatorial voice ; “ the 
door is locked inside ; it is mademoiselle de Villepreux’s study, 
and I alone have the right of entrance during her absence.” 

“ Still the door must be taken down to be repaired,” said fa- 
ther Huguenin, “ unless you mean to leave it unfinished.” 

“ That will come in its time,” replied M. Lerebours ; “ our 
business now is with the staircase. This is the place, and if you 
will come down, I will show you the plan.” 

Pierre came down from the ladder, and the steward unrolled 
before him several sheets ; they were etchings from pictures of 
old Flemish interiors. 

“ Mademoiselle,” said M. Lerebours, “ has desired that we 
should conform to the plan of these staircases, and choose among 
these specimens that which would be best adapted to the necessi- 
ties of the situation. I have consequently had a plan drawn 
according to the laws of geometry ; I presume that you will be 
able to conform to it when it has been explained to you.” 

“ This plan is defective,” said Pierre, as soon as he cast his 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


27 


eyes upon the drawing which the intendant unrolled before him 
with an important air. 

“ Think before you speak, my friend,” replied the steward ; 
“ this plan was executed by my son — my own son.” 

“ Your son has made a mistake,” returned Pierre, coldly. 

“ My son is an employe aux ponts-et-chaussees j* learn that, 
master Pierre,” cried the intendant, quite red with anger. 

“ 1 have nothing to say to the contrary,” said Pierre, with a 
smile ; “ but if the gentleman, your son, were here, he would 
see his error and would make another plan.” 

“ Under your direction, doubtless, sir wiseacre.” 

“ Under that of good sense, sir steward ; and he would give 
me one that I could follow.” 

Father Huguenin laughed with pleasure in his grey beard ; 
he was delighted that his son should avenge him for M. Lere- 
bours’ insinuations. 

“ Let me look at the plan,” said he with an understanding 
air ; and taking from the pocket of his vest, which reached to 
his knees, a pair of horn spectacles, he placed them on his nose 
and pretended to examine the drawing, though he knew nothing 
about it. Linear designing was a matter he had always pre- 
tended to despise ; but an instinctive faith told him at this mo- 
ment that his son was right. He did not fail to affirm that the plan 
was false, and maintained it with so much decision that Pierre 
would have thought him converted in favor of draughting had he 
not perceived that he held the paper upside down. He hastened 
to take it from him, for fear that the steward, who however was 
no better versed than he in such matters, might remark it. 

“ Your son may be skilful on the bridges and highways,” pur- 
sued father Huguenin with a laugh ; “ but there are not many 
staircases built on the roads that I know of. Every one to his 
business, M. Lerebours, without intending to offend you.” 

“ So you refuse to build this staircase ?” said M. Lerebours, 
addressing Pierre. 

“ I will undertake to rectify it,” replied Pierre with gentle- 
ness. “ That will not be difficult, and the movement will be the 

* A surveyor or engineer employed by government on the bridges and 
highways. 


28 


THE COMPANION 


same. I will add an open-work balustrade of oak in the style 
of the wainscottings, and pendentives corresponding with those of 
the ceiling.” 

“ Then you are a sculptor also ?” said M. Lerebours bitterly. 
“ You have all talents !” 

“ Oh, not all,” replied Pierre with a good-natured sigh, “ not 
even all those I ought to have. But try me in my line, and if 
you are satisfied, you will forgive me for having contradicted 
you ; I had no intention of wounding you, I can swear. If I had 
to do with the building of a bridge or the laying out of a road, I 
should place myself with pleasure under the direction of M. Isi- 
dore, because I know that I should have many useful things to 
learn of him.” 

M. Lerebours, somewhat mollified, consented to listen to the 
criticism full of gentleness which Pierre made to him of the plan 
in question. The demonstration was clearly given, and the elder 
Huguenin understood it at once, for, by practice and natural 
logic, he had attained quite an elevated understanding of his 
art, but M. Lerebours, who had neither theory nor practice, per- 
spired in great drops while he pretended to understand ; and to 
close the discussion, it was decided that Pierre should draw an- 
other plan, which should be submitted to the architect whom the 
family honored with their patronage. M. Lerebours was well 
pleased to make this trial before employing the young joiner, and 
they agreed that the estimate of the labor and the rate of com- 
pensation should be put off* until the judgment of the architect. 

When the Huguenins had returned home, the father kept a 
profound silence. They resumed their work until the evening, 
and Pierre, with no more pride than before, began to plane the 
boards as his father directed ; but it was easy to see that the lat- 
ter no longer laid out work for him with so much assurance, and 
that he spoke to him with more respect than usual. He even 
went so far as to consult him upon a very simple process which 
Pierre made use of in carrying on a certain job. 

“Your way is good also,” replied Pierre. 

“ But in fine,” said the old man, “ your’s is better, doubt- 
less ?” 

“ It is easier to me,” replied Pierre. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


29 


“ Then you disapprove mine ?” said father Huguenin again. 

“By no means,” replied the young man, “ since with a little 
more time and labor you attain the same result.” 

The old joiner understood this delicate criticism and bit his 
lips ; then an approving smile effaced his involuntary grimace. 

After supper, Pierre went to work. He selected a large sheet 
t)f paper from his portfolio, took his pencil, his compasses, and 
his rule, drew lines and cut them by other lines, rounded his 
curves, his semi-curves, made his projections, his openings, and 
at midnight his plan was finished. Father Huguenin, who pre- 
tended to slumber by the chimney-side, followed him with his 
eyes over his shoulder. When he saw that he closed his port- 
folio and was going to bed without a word ; “ Pierre,” said he at 
last in a smothered voice, “ you are playing a bold game ! Are 
you very sure that you know more than M. Lerebours’ son, than 
a young man who has been brought up in the schools and is em- 
ployed by government ? This morning, when you explained the 
faults of his plan, although you used words with which I am not 
very familiar, I understood that you might be right ; but it is 
easy to blame and not so easy to do better. How can you flatter 
yourself that you make no mistake yourself in all those lines you 
have crossed upon a piece of paper ? It is only by trying the 
pieces with each other and measuring anew, that one can be very 
sure of what he does. If you make a mistake in working, it is 
only a day and a little wood lost ; you correct, nobody sees it, 
and there’s an end. Instead of which, if you there make a sin- 
gle false line, all the fine scholars with whom you wish to com- 
pare yourself will cry out that you are a know-nothing, a stupid 
fellow ; and you will be ruined in reputation before doing any- 
thing. It is now almost forty-five years that I have conducted 
my business with honor and profit ; a mistake upon paper might 
have ruined me at the beginning of my career. Therefore I 
have taken good care not to compete with those who pretended 
to know more than I. I have made my little way with my little 
proverb : ‘ By the work you know the workman.’ Take care of 
yourself, my child ! Mistrust your self-love.” 

“ My self-love does not enter here, be sure of that, my good 
father,” replied Pierre ; “ I do not wish to humiliate any one, 


30 


THE COMPANION 


nor seek to bring myself into notice ; but there is above us all 
something which is infallible, and which no vanity, no jealousy, 
can turn to its purposes : that something is truth demonstrated 
by calculation and experience. Whoever has once clearly seen 
this truth, can never be betrayed into false applications. I have 
already told you, your processes are good, since they enable you 
to succeed in all you undertake ; and I will add that, the more 
I examine your work, the more do I admire the presence of 
mind, the intelligence, the courage, and the memory you must 
have required to succeed without the aid of geometry. The 
theory would teach nothing to you who have a superior mind ; 
but you will understand the advantages of this theory when I 
tell you that, with its assistance, the most simple of your appren- 
tices could attain, in a short time, not the same skill, but the 
same certainty, which forty-five years of assiduous labor have 
enabled you to acquire. Exact science is nothing else than the 
result of the experience of all men collected, ascertained, and 
demonstrated in those terms, the technicality of which wrongly 
repels you ; for their precision is more easily retained than the 
vague definitions in common use. With the help of designing, 
you might have known at twenty what you perhaps hardly knew 
at forty, and you might have exercised your great intelligence 
upon new subjects.” 

“ There is something good in what you say,” replied the elder 
Huguenin ; “ but if you triumph in the challenge which you 
give to the steward’s son, do you not think that his father will be 
mortally angry with us, and intrust to some other the work he 
proposed to us this morning ?” 

“ He will be careful not to dissatisfy his masters. Recollect, 
father, that M. Villepreux is an active, sharp-sighted, economi- 
cal man ; M. Lerebours knows that things must be done well 
and without prodigality ; this is why he chose you, though he 
does not like the ancient patriots. He will preserve the custom 
of the chateau for you, do not doubt it, and the more because the 
architect will tell him that you are more capable than many 
others.” 

Overcome by the wisdom of his son, father Huguenin slept 
tranquilly, and three days after, was sent for to the chateau to 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


31 


enter into an understanding with the architect, who had come in 
person to examine the place and make an estimate of the total 
expense, on account of the chatelain. 

The architect was quite inclined to decide in favor of the most 
powerful, that is, of M. Lerebours and his offspring. Thus, as 
soon as he had cast his eyes upon the two plans, he cried out : 

“Without any doubt your son’s plan is excellent, my little 
father Lerebours ; and yours, my poor friend Pierre, halts on 
three legs.” Saying this, he contemptuously threw upon the ta- 
ble the plan of the employe aux ponts-et-chaussees, not doubting 
that it was the work of the joiner. 

“ Excuse me, sir,” said Pierre, with his accustomed tranquil- 
lity, “ the plan you reject is not mine. Have the goodness to 
look at that which you approve ; my name is written in small 
characters upon the last step of the staircase.” 

“ Faith, that is true !” cried the architect, with a loud laugh. 
“ I am sorry for you, my poor father Lerebours, your son has 
pocketed his own ball. Come, don’t be troubled ; that may hap- 
pen to everybody. As for you, my boy,” added he, turning 
towards the younger Huguenin and clapping him on the shoulder, 
“ you understand your business, and if you are as good a youth 
as you are a good geometrician, you will make your way. This 
drawing is made with much taste and elegance,” continued he, 
holding up Pierre Huguenin’s design, “ and this staircase will 
be as easy as it is elegant. Employ that joiner, father Lere- 
bours, you may go further and fare worse.” 

“ Such is my intention,” said Lerebours, with the calmness 
of a profound politician. “ I know how to render justice to 
talent and to recognise merit wherever it is found. My son is 
certainly very strong in geometry, but he has a head so young, 
so ardent — ” 

“ Come, come, he must have been thinking of some pretty 
girl when he drew his plan,” said the architect. “ The rogue 
is handsome enough to have such distractions frequently.” 

Father Lerebours began to laugh like a kestrel, while the ar- 
chitect answered him like a great bell. When they had exhaust- 
ed all their foolish gaiety, they went to work upon the general 
estimate of the repairs, while the master joiner and his son made 


32 


THE COMPANION 


that which concerned their department. The price was disputed 
with a horrible tenacity on the part of Lerebours, and a great 
firmness on that of Pierre Huguenin. His pretensions were so 
moderate, that his father, knowing well that Lerebours would 
wish to beat them down without shame, accused him secretly of 
not understanding his business. But Pierre was immovable, and 
the architect, compelled to acknowledge that his demand was 
reasonable, closed the discussion by whispering to the steward, 
“ Finish at once, before the father stops the bargain.” The con- 
tract was therefore signed. The architect agreed to survey after 
the work was done. After all, considering that our institutions 
are such as always to sacrifice the workman to his employer, the 
business was a good one for the master joiner. 

“ Well,” said he to his son, as they returned home, “ you un- 
derstand everything ; this is the first time in my life I have ever 
made a bargain without having my say.” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


33 


CHAPTER IV. 

A week afterwards, the Huguenins, having completed all the 
work for which they had engaged with their village customers, 
took possession of the chapel and commenced their labors. 
Usually, at Paris, the mechanics carry home their work, and only 
return to the premises to place and fit the parts. But, in the 
chateaux, it is quite customary for a building under repair to be- 
come the workshop of all those employed upon it. 

Pierre was always up before daylight. By the first rays of 
the sun, he was already passing his compasses over the old oaken 
planks of the venerable wainscotting, and the work was laid out 
for the apprentices when they arrived, their eyes still swollen 
with sleep. It happened one evening that Pierre, absorbed in 
his examination of the wainscotting, and having traced several 
figures with chalk upon a panel blackened by time, forgot, in his 
calculations, the late hour and the solitude that had grown around 
him. His father had retired long before with all the workmen, 
the doors of the chateau were closed, and the watchdogs loosed 
in the court yards. The vigilant steward, surprised at seeing a 
lamp still burning behind the high glass windows of the work- 
shop, came, his bunch of keys in one hand and a dark lantern in 
the other, to look with precaution at the door. 

“ It is you, master Pierre !” cried he, when he recognised the 
joiner through the opening. “ Have not you worked enough for 
one day V* 

Pierre having replied that he had still work for an hour, M. 
Lerebours gave him the key of one of the park gates, desiring 
him to be careful to extinguish his lamp and to close the doors 
when he departed, wished him good courage, and went to give 
himself up to the delights of repose. 


34 


THE COMPANION 


Pierre remained two hours longer, and when he had worked 
out the problem which embarrassed him, determined to go home 
to sleep ; but he heard the clock of the chateau strike two. 
Pierre feared that his being abroad at such an hour might be no- 
ticed by the villagers, and give rise to remarks. He avoided the 
reputation of eccentricity with which his love of study would 
not have failed to invest him. Besides, his apprentices must 
soon arrive, and if he went to bed, he might not wake early 
enough to receive them and set them to work. He determined 
to stretch himself upon a heap of those small strips and shavings 
of wood which the joiners remove from their boards in planing. 
It was a bed quite soft enough for his stout limbs. His vest 
served him for a pillow, and his blouse for a covering. But, as 
the day approached, the air became more fresh, the morning 
dampness penetrated through the windows, from which the 
greater part of the sashes had been removed, and this discomfort 
of cold was increased by a slight stiffness which Pierre had in- 
curred in consequence of being all day upon a ladder. He 
looked to see if he could not find something to warm himself 
with, and his eyes fell upon the old tapestry which covered the 
little door spoken of in a preceding chapter of this history. The 
door had been taken down in order to be repaired, and the tapes- 
try alone remained. Pierre mounted upon the ladder, but only 
then recollected that the careful steward had nailed this tapestry 
to the wall on all sides, to prevent the dust and profane looks 
from penetrating into mademoiselle de Villepreux’s study. 

He also remembered the important tone with which the stew- 
ard had forbidden his opening that door, on the day when he 
wished to see both sides of it. A feeling of curiosity took pos- 
session of him ; not that vulgar, selfish curiosity which belongs 
to narrow minds, but that adventurous desire experienced by a 
vivid imagination, devoted to ignorance of the greater part of 
those things which it could comprehend. “ The study of the 
young lady of the chateau must be,” he thought, “ filled with 
those objects of art which are intended for the hall. There 
must be books, pictures, and certainly some ancient furniture, 
very curious and very interesting to me. I have only two or 
three nails to draw out ; I am neither a spy nor a robber : why 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


35 


should the breath exhaled from my chest, why should my re- 
spectful regard for all that is beautiful, profane this sanctuary ?” 

It was quickly done. A slight touch unfastened the tapestry, 
and Pierre entered the cabinet. It was a small rotunda occupy- 
ing the whole second story of one of the turrets jutting from the 
chateau. This pretty room had been decorated with elegance, 
and was lighted by a single vast window overlooking the gar- 
dens, woods, and meadows, as far as the eye could reach. A 
handsome Turkish carpet, curtains of damask, some plaster 
casts, an easel, some old engravings richly framed, a handsome 
coffer dating from the revival of the arts, a dresser in the same 
style, some books, a crucifix, an old lute painted and gilt, a skull, 
some Chinese vases, a thousand details of that modern taste 
without order, without form, and without object, but elegant, 
eccentric, learned, which seems to venerate the past while play- 
ing with the present : such was the artistic pandemonium which 
met the glance of the young mechanic. 

At that epoch the taste for curiosities had not yet descended 
into vulgar life. The shop of bric-a-brac (odds and ends) was 
not as essential in every street of Paris, and even in the out- 
skirts, as the baker’s counter and the wine merchant’s sign. It 
was more fashionable to seek on the quays for these faded vesti- 
ges of our forefathers’ luxury. It was not so easy as it now is 
to find skilful workmen accustomed to repair them. All the 
articles plundered from the old chateaux or proscribed by 
the Greek and Roman taste of the empire, and thrown aside in 
all the corners of the world, had not issued from the granaries 
and hovels, whence the magic wand of modern fashion has 
drawn so many during the past few years. They were not then 
imitated with so much art that it was impossible to determine 
their age : in fine, they were believed more precious because 
they were believed more rare. It was already the fashion to 
surround one’s self with these heterogeneous objects and to live 
in the dust of the past, but it was an exquisite fashion, and pre- 
vailed only among the higher classes or artists of renown. 
Thence came the literature of coffers, of drinking cups and 
buffets, the painting of dressers and trophies, the bringing upon 
the lyric scene of coats of mail, of daggers and bucklers, and 


36 


THE COMPANION 


so many other tendencies of art, childish and beneficent manias, 
which in all ages have had the privilege of amusing and ruining 
the rich, the idlers, and the imitators, whichever we may be. 

Pierre was naively delighted with all these baubles, imagining 
that mademoiselle de Villepreux was the only young lady artistic 
enough to sit in a chair of the time of Charles IX., and courage- 
ous enough to have a human skull among her ribbons and laces. 
He thence conceived a high admiration for that young person 
whom he confusedly remembered having seen in his youthful 
plays, and felt doubly happy to execute the noble work of 
the chapel under the eyes of a lady capable of appreciating its 
merit. Then he contemplated with delight the Madonna della 
Seggiola engraved by Morghen, and represented to himself 
the young chatelaine under those features at once angelic and 
powerful. Agitated, transported, he would have forgotten him- 
self there the whole day had he not been recalled to his duty by 
the noise of his workmen, who came whistling along the alleys of 
the park. He hastened to leave the turret and return to the 
workshop, after having nailed the tapestry again with care. 

Afterwards, M. Lerebours asked very often to have the door of 
the cabinet repaired and put in its place. He became impa- 
tient ; he said that the dust found its way in, that the family 
would soon arrive, that mademoiselle would be much dissatisfied 
at not being able to shut herself up at once in her turret, for she 
loved that apartment particularly ; in fine, that it was the 
first thing to be done. At one time he assumed a wheedling and 
caressing tone, at another he scolded and rolled his little eyes 
with an indignant air. Pierre promised always, and did not keep 
his word. He had hidden the door so well behind a heap 
of boards and joists, that it could not possibly be found. Every- 
thing went on so quickly and so well otherwise, that M. Lerebours 
did not dare complain too loudly. 

The fact is, that more than once Pierre passed the first hours 
of the night in the turret, standing in ecstasy before the furniture, 
the engravings, the models. What tempted him more than all 
the rest was the beautifully bound and gilt books which glittered 
upon the shelves of a small ebony bookcase fastened to the wall. 
Pierre had only to stretch out his hand in order to gratify his 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


37 


curiosity, but he feared to commit something like an abuse of 
confidence in laying upon those rich bindings a hand hardened 
and blackened by toil. One Sunday, when everybody had left 
the chateau, even M. Lerebours, Pierre yielded to the temptation. 
He was always exquisitely neat on Sunday ; he had an innate 
taste for elegance, and the least spot upon his clothes, the least 
dust upon his hands or hair troubled him more than perhaps should 
be the case with a perfectly sensible mechanic. When he had 
assured himself, by looking in the psyche of the cabinet, that his 
dress, though less rich than that of a bourgeois,* was not less 
irreproachable, he decided to open a book. It was the Emile of 
Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Pierre knew it by heart; he had 
obtained it at Lyons, and had read it during evenings with 
several friends, companions in his tour of France. Upon the 
same shelf Pierre found the Martyrs of Chateaubriand, the 
tragedies of Racine, the Lives of the Saints, the Letters of 
S6vigne, the Social Contract, the Republic of Plato, the Encyclo- 
pedia, various historical works, and many other books quite 
astonished at finding themselves together. He devoured in the 
course of three months, that is, in the amount of about sixty 
hours, divided between a dozen Sundays, not the letter, but the 
substance of the greater part of these works ; and he has often 
said since, that those hours were the most beautiful of his life. 
He mingled therewith I know not what attraction of romantic 
mystery which rendered more sweet the poetry of certain books, 
and more solemn the gravity of others. But what attracted him 
the most, was all that had a philosophic relation with the history 
of legislations. He there sought with eagerness for the great 
secret of the organization of society into different castes, and was 
confirmed in the ideas he had previously acquired by reading 
abridgments, and receiving, though from a distance, the shock of 
political impressions. What an extent of knowledge, what 
a superiority of ideas would he not have attained at that period, 
if he had had time and books at discretion ! but he could not 
neglect his work, and after some nocturnal visits to the turret, 

* The acknowledged divisions of society in France are, the nobility, 
clergy, the bourgeoisie or citizens, and the people, the latter including all 
mechanics. 


38 


THE COMPANION 


Pierre perceived that his head was heavy and his arms stiff the 
next day. He therefore considered it necessary to forbid to 
himself these intellectual delights during the week, the more that 
he felt an excessive self-love in not leaving in the cabinet any 
trace of a workman’s dusty steps. I know not how dissatisfied 
he would have been, had he stained with moist finger the satin 
margins of those beautiful books. What was his secret fancy in 
^cherishing so frivolous a fear ? He would have been quite 
embarrassed to tell you at the time. Vague, strange, irresistible 
thoughts fermented in his bosom. He felt in himself a nobility 
of nature more pure and more exquisite than all the titles acquired 
and consecrated by the laws of the world. He was every mo- 
ment compelled to stifle the bursts of a nature in a manner 
princely, under the envelope of a mechanic. He resigned 
'>himself to it with a strength and a serenity which so much the 
/ more characterized this innate grandeur. But during these 
hours of mysterious study, seated with nobleness upon the 
Ncushions of a velvet sofa, he contemplated a beautiful landscape, 
the poetry of which he felt revealed to him in proportion as the 
descriptions of the poets translated to him the divine art of which 
creation is the visible expression. In those moments Pierre 
Huguenin felt himself king of the world ; but when he found 
upon his pensive brow, upon his dry and bruised hands, the 
eternal marks of his slave’s chains, burning tears fell from his 
^eyes. Then he fell upon his knees, raised his arms towards heaven, 
and prayed for patience for himself, for justice for all his brothers 
abandoned upon the earth to the ignorance and brutishness of 
poverty. 

To the violent and profound emotions of history succeeded an 
ineffable charm and transports of the imagination when the first 
romances of Walter Scott fell into his hands. You will soon 
learn how dangerous this pleasure became to him, and how 
much he was influenced by this last reading. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


39 


CHAPTER V. 

A troublesome accident interrupted the labors of the work- 
shop at the moment when they were going on best. One of 
Father Huguenin’s most skilful apprentices dislocated his shoul- 
der by falling from a ladder ; and as a misfortune never comes 
alone, Father Huguenin himself ran a splinter into his finger so 
as to disable him. M. Lerebours was full of gracious condolings 
for a day or two ; but when he saw that the apprentice was sent 
home to his family to be nursed, and when the village physician 
had examined the joiner’s hand and declared that a fortnight’s 
rest would be necessary to cure the wound, the intractable 
steward talked of having the staircase commenced by other con- 
tractors. This was a mortal fear to Father Huguenin, who felt 
more self-love than personal interest in having the sole charge 
of all the job. He wished to go to work again ; but the wound 
became worse, and he was again obliged to desist. The physi- 
cian threatened to amputate the finger, the hand, perhaps the 
arm, if he persisted. 

“Cut off my head at once, then!” said Father Huguenin, 
throwing his chisel with despair upon the floor ; and he went to 
shut himself up at home in anger and in pain. 

“ Father,” said Pierre to him in the evening, “ something must 
be done. You cannot work for several weeks without endanger- 
ing your health, perhaps your life. William was your best work- 
man ; he will require two months, at least, to get well. I am 
therefore alone with boys, zealous no doubt, but inexperienced, 
and devoid of the knowledge necessary for a work of this impor- 
tance. I will not conceal from you that, compelled for some days 
to labor for three, I feel my own strength failing ; I am losing 
my appetite, I cannot sleep. I may perhaps fall ill ; I will go 
on as long as I can, without complaining, that you well know ; 


40 


THE COMPANION 


but the time will come when fatigue will overpower us, and then 
M. Lerebours, supposing that he is patient until then, will have 
good reason to substitute others for us.” 

“ What can you do ! fate opposes us !” replied the elder Hu- 
guenin with a deep sigh ; “ and when the devil fights against 
poor folks, they must give way.” 

“ No, father, fate opposes no one ; and as to the devil, if it be 
true that he is wicked, it is certain that he is a coward. You 
will not fail if you listen to me. We must have two good work- 
men, and all will go well.” 

“And where will you get them? Will the master-joiners in 
the neighborhood give up theirs to us ? When they are good, 
there are never any to spare ; and if they are bad, there are al- 
ways too many. Shall I propose to one of those masters to go 
shares with me ? In such a case I would rather retire com- 
pletely. Where is the use of trouble if we must divide the 
honor ?” 

“ Therefore the whole honor must remain with you,” replied 
the young joiner, who was well acquainted with his father’s 
weakness ; “ you must not have any partner. I will only go 
and get two workmen, and of the best, I assure you ; leave it to 
me.” 

“ But once again, where will you fish for them ?” cried the 
father Huguenin. 

“ I will go and enlist them at Blois,” replied Pierre. 

Here the old man frowned in so strange a manner, and his 
face assumed an expression of such severe reproach, that Pierre 
was amazed. 

“ That is well !” returned father Huguenin after an energetic 
silence, “this is what you wish to arrive at. You must have 
companions of the Tour of France , children of the Temple , sorcer- 
ers, libertines, the off-scourings of the highways ? In what De- 
voir will you choose them ? for you have not done me the honor 
to inform me with what diabolical society you are affiliated, and I 
do not yet know if am the father of a wolf of a fox , of a goat, or 
of a dog”* 

* Different nicknames which the societies of journeymen of several 
trades gave to each other. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


41 


“ Your son is a man,” said Pierre, recovering his courage, 
“ and be sure, father, that no one will ever address to him a de- 
grading term ; I knew that I should incur your anger by speak- 
ing of enlisting journeymen ; but I flatter myself that you will 
reflect upon it, and that an unjust prejudice will not prevent 
your using the only means left you of retaining the job at the 
chateau.” 

“ Really, that is strange ! and I see clearly that all this pre- 
tended gentleness covered evil designs against me. Then the 
devorants* are to enter my house by the window ! for 1 shall cer- 
tainly shut the door in their faces ; God knows if they will not 
cut my throat in my bed, as they cut each other’s throats at the 
corners of the woods and in the wine-shops.” 

While saying this, father Huguenin raised his voice, and, 
without thinking of his wounded hand, struck upon the table with 
all his strength. 

“ Whom are you quarrelling with ?” said his neighbor, the 
master-locksmith, as he entered, attracted by the noise : “ do you 
want to overturn the house, and are you not ashamed to make 
such a rumpus at your years ? What, young man, are you self- 
willed with your father ? that is not right. Youth is a latch 
which ought to obey the mainspring of riper age.” 

When Pierre had told father Lacrete, the latter began to 
laugh. 

“ Ah ! ha !” said he, turning towards his gossip, “ I recognise 
you there, my old madcap of a neighbor, with your grudge 
against the Companions. Have they beaten you because you 
would not tope ?] Have they put your shop under the ban be- 
cause you could not howl? Yet your voice is strong enough, 
your fist heavy enough to have the requisite talents. By my 
faith, I think you very foolish to go thus against custom ; and for 
myself, 1 regret that I have not thirty years less on my shoul- 
ders ; I would go and get received into some society, for it ap- 
pears that the strongest live well there at the expense of the most 

* Companions of the Devoir — originally devoirants. 
f Toper is the word used to express the greeting required by the Com- 
panions of some of the Devoirs ; the literal meaning is, to say done, strike 
hands, conclude a bargain ; it will be more fully explained hereafter. 


42 


THE COMPANION 


cowardly, and that afterwards they call up the devil in some 
graveyard, or at night between four roads. The devil comes 
with legions of ten thousand imps, and that must be curious to 
see. To think that I have heard the devil talked about for more 
than sixty years, and that I have never been able to get a sight 
of him ! Come, Pierre, you know him, for you have been re- 
ceived as a companion, tell me a little how he is made.” 

“ Is it possible, neighbor,” said Pierre laughing, “ that you 
believe in such follies ?” 

“ I don’t believe in them entirely,” replied the locksmith, with 
good-natured malice ; “ but in fine I do believe in them a little. 
I never shall forget the fright I had when I was quite young, and 
heard upon the mountain of Valmont, where I was then working 
as a blacksmith with my father, the singular cries and the horri- 
ble howlings, which they called the night-hunt, or the sabbat. I 
hid myself trembling in the straw of my bed, and my father said 
to me : ‘Come, come, go to sleep, my boy ! that is the wolves 
howling in the forest.’ But there were others who said : ‘ That 
is the journeymen carpenters who are receiving a new brother 
into their body, and they make him sign a contract with the 
devil ; if you keep awake till one o’clock in the morning, 
you will see Satan pass in the sky under the form of a fiery 
square. Really, I believed it so well, that, even while dying 
with fear, I burnt with desire to see him ; but I never could help 
going to sleep before the hour, for fatigue was stronger than cu- 
riosity. But, would you believe it ! since I have been told that 
the locksmiths have a Devoir, I begin to think there is not so 
much deviltry about it, and that it may be good for something.” 

“ Good for what ?” cried the elder Huguenin, more and more 
angry, “ really, you will drive me mad ! Would not one say 
that he was going to study the freemasonry of the Companions, at 
his age ?” 

“ Yes, at my age, I should like to learn it,” replied father La- 
crete, who was obstinate and opinionated like a true locksmith ; 
“ and if you wish to know what it is good for, I will tell you that 
it serves to make people have a good understanding, to know, to 
support, and help each other, which is not so foolish nor so bad.” 

“And I will tell you how it serves them,” returned father Hu- 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


43 


guenin indignantly, “ to have an understanding against you, to 
learn from each other the means of filching your money, to sup- 
port them in order to destroy your credit, in fine, to help them 
ruin you.” 

“ Then they are very sharp,” pursued the neighbor ; “ for I 
cannot see all that, and yet not a year passes without my enlist- 
ing two or three. I never have a job of any consequence at the 
chateau, without going to the city to find some good youth, very 
intelligent, very skilful, very gay especially, for I love gaiety ! 
Those madcaps have always some fine songs to cheer our ears 
and give us courage while we hammer in cadence on our anvils. 
They are brave as lions, work better than we do, know all sorts 
of stories, relate their journeys, and talk to you of all countries. 
That makes me young again, that makes me live. Eh ! eh ! fa- 
ther Huguenin, your hairs have whitened sooner than mine, be- 
cause you have kept up your pride as an old master and have 
never been willing to be on good terms with young folks.” 

“ Young people must live with young people, and when old 
ones wish to share their diversions, they laugh at and despise 
them. You have done a great business by consorting with jour- 
neymen, haven’t you ? Instead of forming those good appren- 
tices who work for you while they pay you, you find your profit 
(a singular profit !) in paying and feeding great scamps who make 
you pass for a know-nothing, and who ruin you.” 

“ If they make me pass for a know-nothing, that is probably 
because I am one ; if they ruin me, it is because I am quite wil- 
ling to be ruined. And suppose it amuses me, to spend what I 
gain from day to day ? I have no children. Haven’t I the right 
to lead a joyous life with those adopted children who help me 
drive away the ennui of solitude and the anxiety of years ?” 

“ I pity you,” replied father Huguenin, shrugging his shoul- 
ders. 

When the two gossips had quarrelled to their hearts’ content, 
they perceived that Pierre, instead of taking pleasure at seeing 
himself supported by the neighbor, had quietly gone to bed. 
This prudent conduct on the one hand, and on the other the 
neighbor’s bold contradictions, which exhausted all father Hu- 
guemn’s anger in one sitting ; in fine, the necessity of action, 


44 


THE COMPANION 


made the old joiner reflect, and the next morning he said to his 
son : “ Well, do you go to the city and bring me some work- 
men. Choose such as you please, provided they are not com- 
panions. ” 

Pierre understood this contradictory permission. He knew 
that his father often yielded in fact, though he never did in 
words. He took his cane and departed for Blois, resolved to en- 
list the first good companions he found, and to make them pass 
for uninitiated apprentices if he shoulcf find his father as badly 
disposed as usual against the secret societies. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


45 


CHAPTER VI. 

While Pierre Huguenin journeyed on foot by the fresh paths, 
so well known to the wandering workmen, who traverse France 
in every direction, as the bird flies, a heavy travelling berlin 
raised clouds of dust as it rolled on the main road from Blois to 
Valencay. It contained nothing less than the Villepreux fami- 
ly, who approached their chateau with an imposing rapidity. 

It is hardly necessary to say, that the impatient steward, suf- 
fering from violent emotions' during the past week, departed that 
morning on his iron-grey pony in order to meet the family. He 
was much troubled by this return, which had been at first an- 
nounced for the middle of autumn, and more recently determined 
upon for the beginning of summer. He could not understand 
why the old count his master should play him (that was his ex- 
pression) such a trick. Nothing was sufficiently prepared to 
receive them. Time had been wanting ; for M. Lerebours 
would have required at least six months to do what he wished, 
and he had had but three. Therefore he was the victim of a 
black melancholy, even while he trotted along at a slow pace to 
meet his master. His hand allowed the reins to lie upon the 
neck of his pony, which drooped its head with an air not less 
melancholy than his own. “Alas !” said M. Lerebours to him- 
self, “ the chapel is not finished. There is more than half the 
work yet to do, the house will be full of dust, M. the count will 
have his morning cough, and his temper will suffer from it. The 
noise of the workmen will trouble mademoiselle. If she could 
only have her favorite cabinet to study in ! And if, at least, that 
cursed door were restored ! But no, nothing ! not a workman to 
replace it ! Father Lacr^te must needs be drunk this morning ; 
and there is Pierre Huguenin gone off, God knows where, on 
such a day as this ! Ah ! the thoughtless mechanics ! If they 


46 


THE COMPANION 


could only imagine the troubles and anxieties which beset, day 
and night, the brain of an intendant like myself V 9 

He was still suffering from these heartrending reflections, 
when the gallop of another pony, quicker and more vigorous than 
his own, drew him from his revery. The iron-grey raised its 
ears and whinnied with satisfaction on recognising the approach 
of a certain black pony, belonging to the son of his master. The 
steward’s brow cleared a little at the sight of his dear Isidore, the 
employe, aux ponts-et- chausstes . 

“ I began to fear that you had not received my letter,” said 
the father. 

“ I received it this very morning,” replied the son ; “ your 
messenger found me two leagues from here, on the new road, 
and very busy with the engineer, who is a stupid blockhead, and 
cannot move a step without me. I asked him for two days fur- 
lough, which he made a great difficulty about granting, for I 
really don’t know how he will get along without my advice. I 
insisted ; I had no intention of failing in my duty towards the 
family, and especially I am as impatient as all the devils to see 
Josephine and Yseult again ; they must have changed a great 
deal ! Josephine must still be pretty, I imagine ! As to Yseult, 
she will be delighted to see me.” 

“ My son,” said the intendant, quickening the pace of his 
steed, “ I have two remarks to make to you : first, when you 
speak of those ladies, you should not name the cousin first ; and 
then, when you speak of M. the count’s daughter, you should not 
say Yseult quite short ; you should not even say mademoiselle 
Yseult ; you should say at most mademoiselle de Villepreux ; in 
general you should say mademoiselle .” 

“ And why so ?” returned the employ 6 aux ponts -et-chaus- 
stes. “ Have I not always called her so without any one’s find- 
ing fault ? Did not we play blind-man’s-buff and hide-and-seek 
together only four years ago ? I should like to have her play 
the prude with me ! You will see that she will call me Isidore 
quite short : consequently — ” 

“ Consequently, my son, you should keep in your place ; re- 
collect that mademoiselle is no longer a child, and that, during 
the four years since you saw her, she has doubtless entirely for- 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


47 


gotten you. You, especially, should never forget who she is, and 
who you are.” 

Wearied by his father’s remarks, M. Isidore shrugged his 
shoulders, began to whistle, and to cut short, put spurs to his 
horse, which began to gallop, covered with dust the new clothes 
of the steward, and soon left him behind. 

We have recorded this conversation only for the sake of show- 
ing to the clear-sighted reader, the self-sufficiency and grossness 
which were the most prominent points of M. Isidore Lere hours’ 
character. Ignorant, envious, shallow, noisy, passionate, and flip- 
pant, he crowned all these happy qualities with an insupportable 
vanity and a habit of shameless boasting. His father suffered 
from these inconveniences without knowing how to repress them, 
and, himself vain to excess, persisted none the less in believing 
Isidore a man full of merit, and destined to make his way, for 
the sole reason that he was his son. He attributed his heedless- 
ness to the impetuosity of too generous a temperament, and he 
could not cease inwardly admiring the fat muscles and the heavy 
mould of that Hercules with crisped hair, with crimson cheeks, 
with thundering voice, with noisy and brutal laugh. 

Isidore arrived at the post-house nearest the chateau twenty 
minutes before his father. It was there that the family were to 
change horses for the last time. His first care was to order a 
chamber in the inn, and to open his valise for the purpose of re- 
newing his toilet. He put on a hunting-jacket, the most ridicu- 
lous in the world, although he had copied it from that of a young 
dandy of a good family with whom he had been fox-hunting in 
the woods of Valencay. But the short and fanciful garment be- 
came grotesque upon his square figure already loaded with flesh. 
His shirt of rose-colored calico, his gold chain garnished with 
trinkets, the arrogant knot of his cravat, his gloves of white doe- 
skin, wrinkled by the exuberance of his red and swollen hands, 
everything about him was unpleasing, impertinent, and vulgar. 

He was none the less satisfied with his appearance, and to for- 
tify his nerves, he began by kissing the maid-servant of the inn ; 
then, he beat his horse in the stable, swore enough to break all 
the windows in the village, ana swallowed several bottles of beer 
dashed with glasses of rum, all the while retailing his accustom- 


48 


THE COMPANION 


ed gasconades to the idlers of the place, who listened to him, 
some with admiration, others with contempt. 

At last, towards sunset, they heard the snapping of the postil- 
lion’s whip upon the hill ; M. Lerebours ran to the stable to 
have harnessed the horses which were as speedily as possible to 
draw the illustrious family to their signoral abode before night. 
He had his own pony bridled, in order to be ready to escort his 
masters ; and with his forehead bathed in sweat, his heart palpi- 
tating with emotion, was upon the threshold of the post-house at 
the moment when the berlin arrived. 

“ Quick, the horses !” in a voice still strong cried the old 
count, leaning from the window. “ Ah ! there you are, M. Le- 
rebours ! I have the honor to salute you. You do me honor ; 
not too well, and yourself? Here is my daughter. Delighted 
to see you again. Have the goodness to see the horses put to at 
once.” 

Such was the old count’s brief and politely wearied reception. 
When the horses were harnessed, the family would have depart- 
ed without paying the least attention to M. Isidore, who stood be- 
side his father, darting impudent glances into the carriage, had 
not the postillion caused himself to be waited for, according to 
custom ; then a small face, brunette and pale, with quite a fine 
expression, appeared at the window, and received with a coldly 
astonished air the familiar bow of the employe aux ponts-eU 
chaussees. 

“ Who is that boy ?” said the count, measuring Isidore. 

“ It is my son,” replied the intendant, with an humble but in- 
wardly triumphant air. 

“ Ah ha ! it is Isidore ! I did not recognise you, my lad. You 
have grown large and fat ! I cannot compliment you on the 
change. At your age one should be slimmer than you are. 
Have you done learning to read ?” 

“O yes, M. the count,” replied , Isidore, attributing the appre- 
ciation made by the count of his body and mind to his jesting 
good-nature ; “I am employe , I finished my studies long ago.” 

“ In that case,” said the count, “ you are more advanced than 
Raoul, who has not finished his. 

While saying this, the old count pointed to his grandson, a 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


49 


young man of twenty, well drawn up and of an insignificant face, 
who was seated upon the box by the side of the valet-de-chambre, 
in order to see the country better. Isidore cast a glance towards 
his former playfellow, and they interchanged a bow by raising their 
respective caps. Isidore was mortified to see that his was of cloth, 
while the young viscount’s was of velvet, and he promised him- 
self that he would have a similar one made on the very next day, 
intending to add thereto a tassel of gold. 

“Well, where is the postillion?” asked the count, impa- 
tiently. 

“ Call the postillion,” cried the valet-de-chambre. 

“ It is incredible that the postillion should make himself wait- 
ed for !” vociferated M. Lerebours, bustling about to give proof 
of his zeal. 

During this time, Isidore passed to the other door in order to 
look at the pretty marchioness Josephine des Frenays, the Count 
de Villepreux’ niece. She alone was affable towards him, and 
this reception gave him still more boldness. 

“ Does not mademoiselle Yseult remember me ?” said he, ad- 
dressing mademoiselle de Villepreux, after having exchanged 
some words with Josephine. 

The pale Yseult looked at him fixedly with an indefinable ex- 
pression, made a slight inclination of her head, and again cast 
her eyes upon the guide-book she was consulting. 

“ We used to have fine games of prison-bars in the garden,” 
resumed Isidore, with the confidence of stupidity. 

“ And you will have no more,” replied the old count in a 
freezing tone. “ My grand-daughter does not play at prison-bars 
now. Come, postillion, a hundred sous for you ; on the gallop !” 

“ For a man who has so much wit,” said the stupified Isidore 
to himself, as he looked after the berlin, “ that was a very idle 
sentence. I know very well that his grand-daughter does not 
play at prison-bars now. Does he think that I do ?” 

It was but the work of a moment for the elder Lerebours to 
remount his pony and follow the carriage. If he was sometimes 
troubled, irresolute on the eve of an occurrence, he was always 
to be found on a level with his position in great events. He 
4 


50 


THE COMPANION 


therefore resolutely took a gallop, which had not happened to him 
for a long time before, nor to his pony either. 

“ Your papa’s Solognot* runs well !” said the stable-boy, in a 
tone half simple, half jeering, as he led his black pony to Isidore. 

“ My Beauceron* runs better,” replied Isidore, throwing to him 
a piece of money in a contemptible manner, which he thought 
contemptuous, and he undertook to mount the pony ; but the Beau- 
ceron, which had its reasons for not being in good humor, began 
to draw back and kick up in rather an ominous style. Isidore 
having brutalized it afresh, it must needs submit ; but the Beauce- 
ron, feeling the spur tear its side, shot off like lightning, with ears 
laid back and heart full of vengeance. 

“ Take care not to fall, at least !” cried the stable-boy, catch- 
ing in the hollow of his hand the small money he had just re- 
ceived. 

Isidore, carried by the Beauceron, passed by the berlin with the 
noise of thunder. The post-horses were frightened and swerved 
somewhat aside, which drew the old count from his revery and 
mademoiselle Yseult from her reading. 

“ That blockhead will break his neck,” said M. de Villepreux 
with indifference. 

“ He will make us upset,” replied Yseult, with the same sang- 
froid. 

“ That young man has not altered to his advantage,” said the 
marchioness, with a tone of compassionate goodness which made 
her companion smile. 

Isidore, arrived at a sharp ascent, diminished his speed in or- 
der to await the carriage. He was not displeased to show him- 
self to the ladies upon that vigorous beast which shook him im- 
petuously, and which he flattered himself he could make caracol 
by the door on Yseult’s side. 

“ That little minx was very sulky with me a while ago,” said 
he to himself ; “ she thinks she can treat me like a child ; it is 
well to show her that I am a man, and just now, on seeing me 
pass at full speed, she must have made some reflections on my 
good looks.” 

* These names are derived from the districts of France in which the po- 
nies are raised. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


51 


The carriage also reached the hill and ascended at a walk. 
The count, leaning from the window, addressed some questions 
to his intendant : this was the moment for Isidore to shine in the 
eyes of the young ladies, who in fact were looking at him. 
The Beauceron, still quite vexed, seconded, without wishing it, the 
intentions of his master, by rolling his large eyes and curving 
his neck in a terrible manner. But an unexpected accident very 
fatally changed the pride of the rider into anger and confusion. 
The Beauceron, beaten by him in the stable, and not knowing 
on whom to avenge himself, had bitten the Grise, a poor, quiet 
old mare, which was now harnessed, as a third, to the berlin. The 
Grise no sooner perceived the Beauceron pass and repass beside 
her than her resentment was awakened. She gave him a kick, 
to which the pony wished to reply ; Isidore cut short the quarrel 
by applying to his steed vigorous strokes of the whip on the right 
side and the left ; the Beauceron, out of his wits, reared so furi- 
ously that the rider was obliged to seize hold of his mane ; the 
postillion, impatient at the misconduct of the Grise, gave a cut 
with his lash which reached the Beauceron ; the latter lost all 
patience, and passing from leaps to swerves, from starts to reite- 
rated kicks, the valiant Isidore was unhorsed and disappeared in 
the dust. 

“ Just as I expected!” said the count, with his imperturbable 
calmness. 

M. Lerebours ran to pick up his son, the good Josephine be- 
came pale, the carriage still went on. 

“ Is he killed V 9 asked the count of his grandson, who from 
the height of the box, turning back, could see Isidore’s pitiful 
figure. 

“ He is only the better for it !” replied the young man, laugh- 
ing. 

The valet-de-chambre and the postillion did the same, espe- 
cially when they saw the Beauceron, freed from his burden and 
bounding like a goat, pass beside them and go off at full speed. 

“ Stop !” said the count, “ perhaps that stupid fellow has been 
lamed by his fall.” 

“ It is nothing, it is nothing !” hurriedly cried M. Lerebours 
on seeing the carriage stop ; “ M. the count should not be delayed.” 


52 


THE COMPANION 


“ But yet,” said the count, “ he must be bruised, and besides, 
he is on foot ; for at the rate his horse goes, he will reach the 
stable some time before his master. Come, my son will get into 
the carriage, and your’s will take his seat upon the box.” 

Isidore, quite red, quite dirty, quite agitated, but endeavoring 
to laugh and assume a nonchalant air, excused himself ; the 
count insisted with that mixture of bluntness and good-nature 
which were the foundation of his character. 

“ Come, come, get up,” said he, in an absolute tone, “ you 
make us lose time.” 

It was necessary to obey. Raoul de Villepreux entered the 
berlin, and Isidore mounted the box, whence he had leisure to 
see his horse running in the distance. Even while replying, as 
he could, to the malicious condolences of the valet-de-chambre, 
he cast an uneasy glance into the carriage. He then saw that 
mademoiselle de Villepreux was hiding her face in her handker- 
chief. Had she been so frightened by his fall as to have a ner- 
vous attack ? One would have said so from the agitation of her 
person, until then so stiff and calm. The fact is that she had 
been seized with a fit of laughter on seeing him re-appear, and, 
as happens to habitually serious persons, her gaiety was convul- 
sive, inextinguishable. Young Raoul, who, in spite of his non- 
chalance and the small extent of his intelligence, was a banterer 
in cold blood like all his family, kept up his sister’s hilarity by a 
succession of pleasant remarks upon the ridiculous manner in 
which Isidore had taken his dive. Raoul’s slow and monotonous 
style of speaking made his observations more comical still. The 
impressible rrmrchioness could not refrain, in spite of the fear she 
had at first felt, and laughter seized upon her as upon her cousin. 
The count, seeing the three young people so gay, improved upon 
the jokes of his grandson with a diabolical coolness. Isidore 
could hear nothing, but he saw the laugh of Yseult, who, lying 
back in the carriage, had no longer strength to conceal it. He 
w'as so bitterly wounded, that he swore to punish her for it, and 
an implacable hatred against that young person was enkindled in 
his vindictive and mean soul. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


53 


CHAPTER VII. 

Still Pierre Huguenin continued his journey towards Blois 
through bye-paths, at one time upon the borders of woods run- 
ning along the hill-sides, at another through the fields, by the 
side of high growing grain. Sometimes he seated himself upon 
the bank of a stream to wash and refresh his burning feet, or 
under the shadow of a large oak, in the corner of a field, to take 
his frugal and solitary meal. He was an excellent foot-traveller, 
and feared neither heat nor fatigue ; and yet he with difficulty 
shortened those delicious halts in the bosom of a rural and poetic 
solitude. A new world had been revealed to him since his last 
readings. He understood the melody of a bird, the gracefulness 
of a branch, the richness of color, and the beauty of lines in a 
landscape. He could give a reason for what he had till then felt 
only confusedly, and the new power with which he was invested 
produced in him unknown joys and sufferings. “ What good 
does it do me,” said he frequently to himself, “ to be no longer 
the same in my mind, if my situation is not to change ? This 
beautiful nature, in which I own nothing, smiles upon me and 
transports me as much as if I were one of the princes who op- 
press it. I do not envy the glory of extending and marking my 
domains upon its mutilated face ; but if I am satisfied with a 
tranquil contemplation, if I ask only to refresh my senses with 
the perfumes and the harmonies which emanate from it, even 
this is not permitted me. An indefatigable laborer, I must, from 
dawn of day till night, water with my sweat a soil which will 
grow green and flower for other eyes than mine. If I lose an 

hour each day in feeling my heart and thought live, I shall 

want bread in my old age, and anxiety for the future will de- 
prive me of all enjoyment in the present. If I stop here an 

instant too long under the shade, I compromise my honor, bound 


54 


THE COMPANION 


by a contract to the incessant expenditure of my strength and to 
the entire sacrifice of my intellectual life. Well, I must start 
again ; even these reflections are wrong.” 

While dreaming thus, Pierre sorrowfully tore himself from 
these joys of liberty ; for to the mechanic liberty is rest. He 
wishes for no other, and the most industrious is often he who 
experiences this need in the highest degree. In proportion to 
the distinction of his nature, he must often curse the continuity 
of a forced task in which his intelligence has not even time to 
contemplate and to mature the work of his hands. 

Our young joiner required only two days’ walking in order to 
reach Blois. He passed the night at Celles, at a wagoner’s inn, 
and the next day, at the first streak of dawn, resumed his jour- 
ney. The morning light was still uncertain and pale when he 
saw approaching him a man of tall stature, having like himself 
a blouse and travelling bag ; but by his long cane he recognised 
that he was not of the same society with himself, who carried a 
short and light one. He was confirmed in this thought, on see- 
ing the man stop twenty paces in front of him and place himself 
in the threatening attitude of the topage. “ Tope, coterie / quel 
vocation ?”* cried the stranger, with the voice of a stentor. To 
this interrogation, Pierre, the laws of whose Society forbad the 
topage , gave no answer, and continued to walk straight towards 
his adversary ; for, without any doubt, the meeting would be 
grievous to one of them. Such are the terrible customs of the 
companionship. 

The stranger, seeing that Pierre did not accept his challenge, 
likewise concluded that he had to do with an enemy ; but, as he 
must keep himself in the right, he no less continued his ques- 
tions according to the programme. “ Compagnon ?” cried he, 
brandishing his cane. As he received no answer, he continued 
“ Quel cot6 ? quel devoir ?” (what society ? what devoir ?) 
And seeing that Pierre still kept silence, he resumed his advance, 
and in less than a minute they were face to face. 

On seeing the athletic strength and imperious bearing of the 
stranger, Pierre understood that there would have been no salva- 


Say, fellow-workman, what profession ? 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


55 


tion for himself had not nature endowed him, as well as his ad- 
versary, with a favorable stature and vigorous limbs. “ Then 
you are not a workman ?” said the stranger to him in a contemp- 
tuous tone as soon as he reached him. 

“ Excuse me,” replied Pierre. 

“ In that case you are not a companion ?” returned the 
stranger, in a tone more arrogant still ; “ why do you presume 
to carry a cane V 9 

“ I am a companion,” replied Pierre, with much sang-froid ; 
“ and I request you not to forget it now that you are informed.” 

“ What do you mean by that ? do you intend to insult me ?” 

“ By no means ; but I am firmly resolved to reply to you if 
you provoke me.” 

“ If you are so brave, why do you refuse the topage V 9 

“I have my reasons for it, apparently.” 

“ But do you know that is not the way to answer? Between 
companions a mutual declaration of the profession and society 
is due. Come, will you not tell me who you are, and must I 
compel you ?” 

“ You could not compel me, and it is enough that you testify 
the intention for me to refuse to satisfy you.” 

The stranger muttered between his teeth : “ We shall see;” 
and grasped his cane convulsively in his hands. But at the mo- 
ment of commencing the attack he stopped, and his brow clouded 
as if crossed by a gloomy remembrance. “ Listen,” said he, 
11 there is no need of so much dissimulation, I see that you are a 
gavot .”* 

“ If you call me gavot,” replied Pierre, “ I have the right to 
say that I recognise you as a devorant,* and such are my ideas, 
that I do not receive your epithet as an insult any more than I 
intend to insult you by giving you the epithet which belongs to 
you.” 

“ You wish to be politic,” retorted the stranger, “ and I see by 
your prudence that you are a true son of Solomon. Well ! I, I 
glory in belonging to the holy devoir of God, and consequently 
I am your superior and your elder ; you owe me respect, and 

* These are the rather contemptuous names by which the rival societies 
call each other. 


56 


THE COMPANION 


you must make to me sign of submission. On that condition 
matters will pass quietly between us.” 

“ I would make no submission to you,” replied Pierre, “ were 
you Master Jacques in person.” 

“You blaspheme!” cried the stranger; “in that case you 
belong to no constituted society. You have no devoir , or else 
you are a revolter, an independent, a Renard de liberty (Fox of 
liberty), the most despicable creature in the world.” 

“ I am nothing of all that,” replied Pierre, smiling. 

“ Gavot, gavot, in that case !” cried the stranger, stamping 
with his foot. “ Listen, whoever you may be, Coterie , Pays , or 
Monsieur ,* you have no desire to fight, nor I either ; and I am 
willing to believe that it is no more from cowardice on your part 
than on mine. I know that there are very courageous persons 
among the gavots, and that prudence is not in all, without excep- 
tion, a false pretence of wisdom to hide their want of heart. As 
to myself, you will not suppose me a coward when I have told 
you my name, as I will do : you have perhaps heard of me on 
the tour of France. I am Jean Sauvage, called La terreur des 
gavots (The terror of the gavots), of Carcassonne .” 

“ You are,” said Pierre Huguenin, “ a stone-cutter, compag- 
non passant (travelling journeyman). I have heard you men- 
tioned as a brave and industrious man ; but you are accused of 
being quarrelsome and loving wine.” 

“ And if you are so well acquainted with my faults,” replied 
Jean Sauvage, “ you must also know the unfortunate adventure 
which happened to me at Montpellier, with a young man who 
undertook to tell me too much.” 

“ I know that you so maltreated him that he is disabled ; and 
that, if the companions on both sides had not had the generosity 
to keep the matter secret, the public authorities would have made 
you sorely repent it, whether your conscience did or not.” 

The devorant, angry at the freedom with which Pierre spoke 
to him, became pale with rage, and raised his cane anew. Pierre, 
seizing his, awaited with cool and reflecting bravery the explo- 

* Club, country, or Sir, titles used by members of various trades when 
addressing each o>lier. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


57 


sion of his fury. But suddenly the stone-cutter let his cane fall, 
and his face assumed a noble and sad expression. 

“ Know, Sir,” said he, “ that I have well expiated a moment 
of delirium ; for if fiery and irritable, know that I am not a 
brute beast, a cruel animal, as your gavots are doubtless pleased 
to have believed. I have wept bitterly for my fault, and have 
done all in my power to repair it. But the young man whom I 
injured is not the less unable to work for the rest of his days, 
and I am not rich enough to maintain his father, his mother, and 
his sisters, whose only support he was. Therefore a whole 
family is wretched from my act, and the assistance which I send 
them while working with all my strength, is not enough to give 
them the comforts they ought to have. For I also have parents, 
and half my earnings belong to them. This is why, laboring 
for two families, I can lay up nothing for myself ; and people 
take me for a drunkard and spendthrift, without imagining 
the efforts I have made to correct myself, and the triumphs I 
have gained over my evil inclinations. Now that you know my 
history, you will not be astonished at what I still have to say. 
I have made an oath never to seek a quarrel with any one, and 
to do all to avoid new misfortunes. Still I cannot be resigned 
to pass for a coward, and the honor of my devoir, the glory of 
the children of Master Jacques, must prevail over my scruples. 
You have spoken to me with an assurance which I do not wish 
to chastise, and which still I cannot put up with. Consent not 
to tell me who you are, since you appear to have reasons 
for concealing it ; but confess, at least, by a simple declaration, 
that there is hut one devoir , and that that devoir is the oldest of 
all.” 

“ If there be but one,” replied Pierre, smiling, “it is evident 
that there is no older ; and if you require me to acknowledge 
yours as the oldest of all, that is compelling me to acknowledge 
that it is not the only one.” 

The devorant was singularly mortified by this raillery, and 
all his anger was again excited. “ I recognise there,” said he, 
biting his lips, “ the insufferable dissimulation of your society. 
You have, nevertheless, clearly understood my proposition, and 
you see that I am conscious of the existence jof false devoirs 


58 


THE COMPANION 


which insolently assume the same title with ourselves. But bei 
sure that we will never consent to it, and that the gavots will 
cease to call themselves companions of the devoir, or that they 
will repent having done so.” 

“ They do not give themselves that name,” replied Pierre ; 
“ they call themselves companions of the devoir of liberty , 
precisely in order not to be confounded with your devorants, 
who are not partisans of any liberty, as all know.” 

“ And you, you are partisans of the liberty of stealing the 
name and titles of others. It is from this that you must abstain. 
We shall carry on the war with you even unto death, or until 
you are compelled to entitle yourselves companions of liberty , 
simply.” 

“ I confess to you that if it depended on me,” replied Pierre, 
“ there would be no dispute about so small a matter. The word 
liberty is so beautiful that it appears to me sufficient to render 
illustrious those who bear it on their banner. But I do not think 
the quarrel can be thus settled so long as your party continue to 
demand it with insults and threats. Thus, so far as concerns 
myself, be sure that no companion of any devoir will ever com- 
pel me, by such means, to proclaim the ancientness and the 
superiority of his party over any party whatsoever.” 

“ Ah ! then you are not a companion ? I see that, for an 
hour, you have been laughing at me, and that you have no pre- 
ference for any color. This proves to me that you are an 
Independent or a Revolter : perhaps you have even been driven 
from some society for your bad conduct. I shall know you, and 
if that is so, will unmask you in any place where I meet you.” 

“ All your words are hostile, and yet I remain calm. Your 
speech breathes hatred, and does not provoke mine ; you threaten 
me, and obtain from me only a smile : any one who, without 
knowing us, should see us thus, would not be led to consider 
you as the most noble and the wiser of the two. I do not under- 
stand why, instead of seeking your glory in words of cursing 
and deeds of violence, you do not seek it in wise practices and 
the sentiments of humanity.” 

“ You are a fine talker, from what I see. Well, so be it; 
I do not hate well-informed persons, and have myself endeavored 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


59 


to throw off the burden of my ignorance ; I have adorned my 
memory with the best songs of our poets, and, though I do not 
accept the spirit of yours, I render justice to the talents of some 
of your songsters. I know that if we have Va-sans-craintre 
(Go without fear) de Bordeaux *, Venddme la clef des cceurs (The 
key of hearts), and so many others, you have Marseillais bon 
Accord (Good harmony), Bordelais la Prudence , Bourguignon la 
Fidelite , Nantais Fret a bien faire (Ready to do good), &c., 
who are not without talent. But I have recognised with sorrow, 
I confess, that it is impossible to be at once an author and a good 
workman. In order to rhyme, one must learn a great many 
things which require time, and consequently make one lose it. 
It is on account of your fine words that I fear that you may be a 
man overwhelmed with debt, having broken your ban, or be- 
trayed your devoir, a bruleur (burner), in one word.” 

“ That fear does not disturb me,” replied Pierre ; “ we shall 
perhaps meet elsewhere and in more cordial relations than your 
present manners seem to desire. Are you now willing to let me 
depart? I cannot stop any longer.” 

“ You are a very prudent man,” returned the obstinate stone- 
cutter, “ but I am one too, and I do not wish to compromise my 
reputation by letting you continue your journey in that man- 
ner.” 

“ Will you tell me how a peaceful meeting with a companion 
on a journey can affect your honor ?” 

“ The gavots are so arrogant towards us (especially out of 
our presence) that they never fail to say that they have made 
any one of ours lower his tone when they meet on the tour of 
France. When they have not been able to give proofs of their 
courage in public, they boast of prowesses which have had no 
witnesses.” 

“ Do not the devorants also boast sometimes ? Have you 
neither impostors nor false braves in your society ? If so, you 
are very lucky.” 

“ Doubtless, there are everywhere bad heads and bad tongues ; 

* The Companions add to a significative surname that which designates 
their country or their native village. 


60 


THE COMPANION 


but you have nothing to fear from my statements, since you 
know my name, while you refuse to tell me yours. Who will 
answer to me for your sincerity ? Who will hinder you from 
saying at Blois, where you are no doubt going, ‘ I met on my 
road la terreur des gavols, of Carcassonne, and I humiliated him 
in words without his daring to reply to me V or else, ‘ I refused 
the topage to a compagnon passant, and, as he insisted, I made him 
bite the dust V I care little for the opinion of your associates ; 
but I cannot do without the esteem of mine. And what would 
they think of me if such reports were brought to them ? Have 
not your people already tried to injure me ? Has it not been 
said that, since the affair at Montpellier, excessive remorse had 
destroyed my courage 1 it is on this account that, in spite of 
the sorrow 1 experience, I am compelled, for the sake of my 
honor, not to give way to any one of yours. Come, let us have 
an end of this, make yourself known.’’ 

“ My name will give you no guarantee,” replied Pierre. “ It 
is not illustrious like your own. But if my silence gives rise 
to your suspicions, I consent to speak, declaring to you that I do 
not mean, by so doing, to yield to an order from you, but to the 
counsels of my reason. My name is Pierre Huguenin.” 

“ Wait a moment ! Is it not you who have received the sur- 
name of Vami du trait (the friend of draughting), in consequence 
of your knowledge of geometry ? Have you not been first 
companion at Nimes ?” 

“ Exactly. Have we ever met before ? 3 ’ 

“ No ; but you left that city as I arrived, and I have heard of 
you. You are a skilful joiner, they say, and a good fellow ; 
but you are a gavot, friend, a real gavot.” 

“ And you,” replied Pierre Huguenin, “ I know you now ; 
you are a man of heart. Your remorse for the affair at Mont- 
pellier, and the assistance you send to the family of Hyppoliie 
the sincere , have proved it to me. But you are full of pride and 
prejudices, and if you do not shake off those miserable bonds, 
you will lay up for yourself many other regrets.” 

“ You pronounce a name which awakens many sufferings,” 
returned Sauvage. “ If I had been allowed, I should have 
abjured my name, La terreur des gavots, for one which was in 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


61 


my head at that time. I wished to call myself Le coeur brise 
(The broken heart). The Devoir did not permit me, and it did 
well, for I should have been laughed at.” 

“ That is possible ; but I esteem you for having had the 
thought.” 

“ If you were not of Solomon, you would not be so touched by 
that. If I had killed a renard du pere Soubise (one of father 
Soubise’s foxes), you would be very indifferent, and yet I should 
not reproach myself any less.” 

“ I should consider you quite as culpable for having done it, 
and esteem you equally for repairing it as you do.” 

“ Why is this ? Are you dissatisfied with your gavots ?” 

“ By no means. But I am, like you, the son of a master 
more humane and more illustrious than Solomon or Jacques.” 

“ What do you mean ? Is there a new society which boasts a 
founder more famous than ours ?” 

“ Yes. There is a society greater than that of the gavots and 
the devorants : it is human society. There is a master more 
illustrious than all those of the Temple, and all the kings of Jeru- 
salem and Tyre : it is God. There is a devoir more noble, 
more true than all those of the initiations and the mysteries : it 
is the devoir (duty) of brotherhood among men.” 

Jean, the devorant, remained speechless, and looked at Pierre, 
the gavot, with an air, half-mistrusting, half-convinced. At last 
he approached him and made a gesture as if he would extend 
his hand ; but he could not resolve to do so, and withdrew it at 
once. 

“You are a singular man,” said he, “and the words you speak 
enchain me in spite of myself. It seems to me that you have 
reflected much upon matters with which I have not had time to 
busy myself, and which, nevertheless, have tormented me like 
cries of my conscience. If you were not a gavot, it seems to 
me that I should like to know you intimately, and to hear you 
speak of what you know ; but my honor prevents my contract- 
ing friendship with you. Adieu ! May you open your eyes to 
the abominations of your devoir of liberty, and come to us who 
alone possess the ancient, the true, the tres-saint devoir de Dieu 
(very holy devoir of God). If you had chosen the good path, I 


62 


THE COMPANION 


should have been happy to have got you admitted, and to serve 
as your pledge and godfather. Your name would have been 
Pierre the Philosopher.” 

Thus the two companions separated, each carrying with him 
the thought, but each in a different degree, that these distinctions 
and these enmities of the companionship stifle many lights and 
destroy many sympathies. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


63 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Towards evening, Pierre Huguenin reached the banks of the 
Loire. At the sight of that beautiful stream which slowly glides 
on its peaceful course in the midst of the meadows, he felt as if 
suddenly relieved from the overpowering heat of the day, and he 
walked for some time on the fine sand, in a path graced among the 
osiers of the bank. He could already perceive in the distance 
the black clock-towers of Blois, and the high walls of that gloomy 
chateau in which the Guises perished, and whence, at a later 
day, escaped Mary de Medicis, held a prisoner by her own son. 
But in vain did he double his speed ; he soon saw that it would 
be impossible for him to arrive before the storm. The sky was 
loaded with heavy clouds, the leaden tints of which were reflected 
by the water. The osiers and willows of the bank whitened 
under the wind, and large drops of rain began to fall. He 
directed his steps towards a clump of trees, in order to seek 
shelter there ; and soon, through the thicket, he distinguished a 
small house, quite poor but neat, which by its bunch of holly he 
recognised as one of those lodging places called bouchons (corks) 
in common parlance. 

He entered, and hardly had he passed the threshold when he 
was received with an exclamation of joy : “ Villepreux ; VAmi- 
du-trait !” cried the host of that isolated dwelling : “ you are 
welcome, my child !” 

Surprised at hearing himself addressed by his gavot name, 
Pierre, whose eyes were not yet accustomed to the obscurity 
which prevailed in the cabin, replied : “ I hear a friendly voice, 
and yet I know not where I am.” 

“ In the house of your faithful companion, of your brother 
of liberty ,” returned the host, approaching him with open arms : 
“in the house of Vaudois-la-Sagesse” (Wisdom). 

“ Of my ancient, of my venerable !” cried Pierre, advancing 


64 


THE COMPANION 


towards the old companion, and they embraced each other closely ; 
but Pierre immediately recoiled a step, uttering a sorrowful ex- 
clamation : Vaudois-la-Sagesse had a wooden leg. 

“ Eh ! Mon Dieu, yes !” returned the honest man, “ that is 
what happened to me by falling from the roof to the pavement.. 
I was obliged to leave my business as a carpenter, and my leg at 
the hospital. But I was not abandoned. Our brave brothers 
made a subscription, and with the product of their collection I 
was enabled to buy a small stock as a wine-merchant, and to 
hire this hovel, where I do a tolerably good business. The Loire 
fishermen and the country cheese-makers never fail to take a 
small glass here as they return home, after having sold their pro- 
duce at the market of Blois. They call me Jambe-du-bois 
(wooden-leg) ; but our old friends, the good companions who 
live in the district, and who often come on Sundays to eat fresh 
fish and drink mountain wine under my arbor of hops, call my 
bush the bower of wisdom. Those are my holidays. While 
pouring out for them, with moderation, my nectar at two sous 
the pint, I preach to them wisdom, union, industry, the study of 
designing : and they listen to me with the same deference as 
formerly. We sing together our old ballads, the glory of Solo- 
mon, the advantages of the beautiful devoir of liberty and of the 
beautiful tour of France , the misfortunes of our fathers in capti- 
vity, farewells to home, the charms of our mistresses. Ah ! as 
to these last songs, I no longer sing with them — Cupid and a 
wooden-leg don’t chime well together ; but I still smile at their 
loves, and only proscribe from our pleasant meetings the songs of 
war, and satires ; for wisdom does not halt, and mine walks 
always on two legs. You see that I am not so unfortunate.” 

“ My poor Vaudois!” relied Pierre, “ I see with pleasure that 
you have preserved your courage and your goodness. But I 
cannot reconcile myself to the idea of that leg which will no 
longer carry you upon the ladders and upon the beams of the 
roofs. You, so good a workman, so skilful in your art, so useful 
to the young people of your profession !” 

“ I am still useful to them,” returned Yaudois-la-Sagesse ; “ I 
give them advice and lessons. They rarely undertake a job of 
any importance without coming to consult me. Several have 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


65 


offered to pay me for a course of lessons in designing, but I give 
it to them gratis. It would be fine indeed, if, after they had 
assessed themselves in order to procure my establishment for me, 
I should not show myself grateful and disinterested towards 
them ! It is quite enough, it is too much indeed, for them to pay 
their scot here. So how satisfied I am, how proud, when I see 
any of them pass before my door and refuse to enter, for want 
of money in the pocket ! That happens sometimes ; then I take 
them by the collar, I force them to sit under my hop vine, and, 
whether they will or no, they are obliged to eat and drink. 
Brave youth ! what a future opens before those souls !” 

“ A future of courage, of perseverance, of talent, of labor, of 
misery, and of sorrow !” said Pierre, seating himself upon a 
bench, and throwing his bundle upon the table with a deep sigh. 

“What is that I hear?” cried Jambe-du-bois ; “Oh, ho! I 
see that my son V Ami-du-trait wants wisdom. I do not like to 
see young people melancholy. You should pass an hour or 
two with me, pays Villepreux ; and to begin, we will lunch 
together.” 

“ With all my heart ; the smallest matter is enough for me,” 
replied Pierre, seeing him hurry to his cupboard. 

“ You do not command here, my young master,” returned the 
carpenter, cheerfully. “ You will not make your bill of fare ; 
for you are not at an inn, but in the house of your ancient, who 
invites and treats you.” 

Then Jambe-du-bois, with wonderful agility, began to run 
into all the corners of his house and garden. He took from 
his fish-box two fine tenches, which he put into the pan ; and the 
fry began to murmur and to sing upon the fire, while the rain 
beat against the window in cadence, and the Loire, lashed by the 
storm, growled without. Pierre wished to hinder his host from 
taking all this trouble ; but when he saw that he had so much 
pleasure in entertaining him, he assisted him in his functions as 
landlord and cook. 

They were about to seat themselves at table when some one 
knocked at the door. 

“ Go and open, if you please,” said the Vaudois to his guest, 
“ and do the honors of the house.” 


56 


THE COMPANION 


But he almost let fall the smoking dish he held in his hand 
when he saw V Ami-du-trait and the new comer throw themselves 
upon each other’s neck with transport. This traveller, covered 
with mud and wet to his bones, was no other than the excellent 
journeyman joiner, Amaury, called Nantais-le-Corinthien (The 
Corinthian of Nantes,) one of the firmest supporters of the de- 
voir of liberty, Pierre Huguenin’s dearest friend, and moreover 
one of the handsomest youths upon the tour of France. 

“ This is then the day of meetings !” cried Vaudois, to whom 
Pierre had related his adventure with la Terreur des gavots of 
Carcassonne. “ This is one of our brothers, doubtless, for you 
give him a very hearty welcome.” 

As soon as the Vaudois knew that his guest was a friend of 
Pierre and a child of his devoir , he made his fire blaze up, invit- 
ed the Corinthian to approach, and even lent him a vest, for fear 
he should take cold, while his own was drying. 

While the young man was warming himself, for every stormy 
rain is cold, though it be in summer, the sun re-appeared in the 
dark sky, the clouds slowly flew away to the east, and the rain- 
bow, reflected in the Loire, raised a sublime bridge from the wa- 
ter to the firmament. Soon the weather was so pure, the air so 
sweet and the earth so smiling, after this generous shower, that 
the happy companions spread their table under the arbor. Some 
drops of rain did indeed fall, from the chalice of the wet flowers, 
upon the bread of the travellers ; but it did not appear less good 
to them. Father Vandois’ honeysuckles emitted a sweet per- 
fume, his tame blackbird sang with a melodious voice upon a 
neighboring thicket, the sun descended towards the horizon, the 
Loire was on fire, and the fish described in its waters a thousand 
sparkling circles. This beautiful evening, the joy of again 
meeting two such perfect friends, the animation which the wine, 
not very delicate to be sure, but natural and pure from all fraud, 
caused to circulate in his veins, the wise discourse of the Vau- 
dois, the amiable expression of Amaury, all contributed to ele- 
vate to the highest regions the noble thoughts of Pierre Hugue- 
nin, or of Villepreux, V Ami-du-trait, as his companions called 
him. 

But in proportion as the evening darkened around him, he 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


67 


again became sad. His voice no longer mingled with those of 
his comrades to celebrate the happy meeting , the delights of a 
wandering life , the glory of the joiner’s art , and all those fine sen- 
timents which inspire the companions with songs so simple and 
often so poetical. Amaury, who had often seen him dreamy, 
was not at all astonished ; but the Yaudois, who was a man of 
the good old time, and who knew nothing about melancholy, re- 
proached him with his. 

“ Young man,” said he, “ why does your brow become dark 
at the same time with the horizon ? Do you believe that the sun 
will not rise to-morrow ? Has friendship no power over you but 
for an hour ? Have you too much mind and science to take 
satisfaction in the gaiety of your comrades ? Come ! Why do 
those sighs escape you, and why are your looks turned from us ? 
Have you any sorrow ? You have told us that on returning 
from your travels you found your old father in good health, that 
you live in a good understanding with him, that work does not 
fail you : what can you desire then V 3 

“ I do not know,” replied Pierre. “I have no reason to com- 
plain of my lot, and yet I do not feel so happy as I was before I 
left my village and during the first years of my tour of France. 
Since I have looked into other books than those which relate ex- 
clusively to my profession, I have felt myself agitated, at one 
moment by exalted joys, at another by bitter sufferings. I can 
bear witness for myself, that I have not given way to these vain 
emotions ; but I have felt them deeply, and have never entirely 
recovered from them. I think of too many things to be absorbed 
in the enjoyment of one alone. The honest pleasures of repose 
and the cheerfulness of a society so delightful as yours cannot 
captivate my soul beyond a certain time ; this is wrong, it is a 
disease, a vice, perhaps. But I always feel within me something 
which urges and overpowers me ; I hear a low voice which says 
to me : Onward, work ; do not stop here, be not content with 
that ; you have everything to learn, everything to do, everything 
to overcome, in order to fill your life as you ought. But as soon 
as I return to my work, a horrible depression, a mortal fear 
seizes upon me. The voice says to me : What are you doing 
there ? Of what use is your labor ? Whither do your efforts 


THE COMPANION 


tend ? do you think you can be more skilful than another ? do 
you hope to change your destiny by wearing out your strength 
and your days in this rude work ? is your future so magnificent 
that you must sacrifice to it the enjoyment of the present ? And 
in this alternation of ardor and disgust, my life flows away like 
a confused dream of which my memory can retain no phase, but 
of which the fatigue only is felt. O my friends ! explain to me 
the evil that consumes me. If I am culpable (and I think so, 
for I am not without remorse), enlighten me, and guide me in 
the good way.” 

Amaury the Corinthian listened to these words with a sympa- 
thizing sadness, and the Yaudois with a profound astonishment. 
The young man understood this suffering without sharing it. 
Less initiated than l’Ami-du-trait into the anguishes of reflection, 
he was nevertheless enough so to understand the causes of his 
evil ; but the invalid, a philosopher by nature, tranquil from 
good sense, and contented from habit, could not explain to him- 
self the uneasiness which belonged to the new generation. 

“ It must be that you have some burden on your conscience 
too heavy to be borne,” replied he to Pierre, “ or your love of 
study has led you to ambition. I have known some ambitious 
young men who, in consequence of wishing to raise themselves 
above their true position, have remained below what they might 
have attained with more simplicity and resignation. I believe, 
my poor Villepreux, that you desire riches or reputation beyond 
measure. You wish that your name should surpass all the illus- 
trious names upon the tour of France ; or else you dream of a 
fortune, a fine house, lands, a great establishment. All this may 
be yours, since you have talent, zeal, a father well established, 
a small inheritance to receive, as you yourself confess. So many 
advantages ought to be enough to make you contented. But 
this is a thing I have often remarked, and which I do not under- 
stand : the more a man possesses, the more he desires ; the more 
he succeeds, the more he wishes to undertake ; and the more 
obstacles he has overcome, the more new ones he creates for 
himself. It is perhaps a favor of Providence to deprive of desire 
those who have no chance of hope. If you want a stoic, look af- 
ter a beggar. I have been told that the founder of that system 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


69 


was a slave. I have forgotten his name ; but he must have been 
really a poor devil, since he had so much reason and patience. 
Well ! it is very certain, that wealth is a great misfortune, 
science a fatal poison, genius a bad fever. And yet we must 
have all these ; and all of us, whatever we are, run after 
them.” 

When Vaudois-la-Sagesse had pronounced this decision, which 
Pierre listened to with sadness and attention, Amaury, consulted 
by the eyes of his friend, spoke in his turn. 

“ As for me,” said he, “ without offending you, I think that 
ambition is not an evil, and that success is not a crime. Why 
do we study ? it is to advance in science ; and when we obtain 
a little, we apply it to build up our fortune. And why do we 
seek to secure riches ? it is to attain repose. Take from us all 
these desires, all these necessities : what are we ? ignorant, idle, 
even when we are only these ; for rudeness engenders rudeness, 
and ‘ lazy ’ among us means a drunkard, a debauchee, a brute, a 
man without heart. Now ! father Yaudois ! you have attained 
repose. Your infirmity prevents you from laboring; but the 
esteem of your brothers has restored to you that which was your 
due, that which you would have acquired by yourself : this is 
just. You are therefore in a condition of comfort which is legi- 
timate, and which you may look upon as your own work, since 
the man who works well and conducts himself well, has right to 
a recompense. Tell us now how you pass your time at present, 
and what employs your mind during those hours in which your 
customers do not keep you busy. You read — for there are books 
upon a shelf ; you draw plans for carpenters’ work — for here are 
some pretty models and good colored designs. You apply your- 
self to poetry, for you have collected with care all the songs of 
your devoir ; you know them by heart, and here are sheets 
written by your hand (and very well written too, truly !) in 
which you have restored to the old authors all which the poor 
memory or the ignorance of vulgar singers had mutilated or cor- 
rupted. You have not therefore stopped in the middle of your 
life sadly to obey the fatality which would have made you impo- 
tent, solitary, useless, desolate. You have, on the contrary, 
made a new bargain with the future ; you have cultivated your 


70 


THE COMPANION 


understanding, improved your writing, and perfected your or- 
thography ; enriched your memory, studied science, morals, 
even politics ; for I have seen all this in you. In fine, you have 
obeyed a secret ambition which forbade your yielding to the stroke 
of adversity, and which was not contented with the pleasures of 
the table and the profits of your little business. You are there- 
fore ambitious, a dreamer, a fool, you also, with all your wisdom ? 
Come, answer that, my philosopher !” 

“ Villepreux, your friend talks like a book,” said the Vaudois, 
a little flattered in secret by the praises he received under the 
form of a dilemma ; “ and I see that he is right ; for I should be 
sadly wearied in my solitude if I had not a taste for books, foi 
old and new songs, for almanacs, and instructive conversations 
with the travellers who stop under my bower. But why do 1 
find so much amusement in all this ? I may, indeed, be ambi- 
tious, but you will allow that I am not sad. I have never 
experienced the sufferings of which l’Ami-du-trait speaks ; I 
have never been unhappy more than once in my life : that was 
when I saw my poor leg go from my bed without me, and I said 
to myself that my arms and my head were of no further use. 
But my friends came, proved to me that they were still of use, 
and I have not forgotten it ! Still, one regret, one desire disturbs 
me. I should like once more to see my mountain, my pays de 
Yaud, my Switzerland, though I now know almost nobody there. 
But in fine that is a dream, and, bound as I am to the banks of 
the Loire by gratitude and friendship, I do sigh a little. I look 
at the sun-set clouds which heap up below there in great white, 
golden, silvery, purple masses, like Mount Blanc. Here, in my 
garden, is a little brook which I have dug out myself, and which 
I call the Rhone. This hillock, which I have planted with rose- 
trees and lilacs, is the Jura. All this amuses and consoles me. 
Sometimes a tear fills my eyes ; and I then make some verses 
and sing them ; and I am happy, take it all in all. There are 
then two kinds of ambition : one which suffers always and is 
never contented with anything ; another which rejoices the soul 
and is satisfied with little. Couldn’t you take mine, pays Ville- 
preux ?” 

“ You have both said very true things,” replied Pierre Hugue- 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


71 


nin, “ and yet neither of you has laid your finger on my wound. 
I am no better surgeon than you, and my heart bleeds without 
my knowing whence escape my blood, my hope and life. Yet 
I can take an oath before God and before you : it is, that I desire 
nothing beyond my condition, if it be not some hours more each 
week to devote to meditation and reading. Neither glory nor 
riches tempt me, I swear it again and upon my honor ! Think 
you that the slight privation of which I complain is enough to 
make me unhappy ? I do not think so. The source of the evil 
is higher. Perhaps this mystery will be solved with time. 
Until then I will suffer in silence, this I promise you, and will 
not seek to discourage others.” 


72 


THE COMPANION 


CHAPTER IX. 

When it was quite dark, Pierre prepared to leave for Blois 
with Amaury, who was also going there. He had not wished 
to disturb the philosophical conversation at supper by the discus- 
sion of his own business ; but he longed to be alone with his 
friend. The Vaudois besought them both to pass the night under 
his roof ; but they alleged that their moments were counted. 
The Corinthian promised that, if he remained at Blois, as was his 
intention, he would often return to empty a bottle of beer under 
the Bower of wisdom ; and Pierre, who thought of resuming the 
road to his village as soon as possible, agreed to stop some 
moments on his return to clasp, in passing, the hand of the old 
carpenter. The osiers through which the path winds had been 
inundated, in several places, by the storm. The invalid pointed 
out to them a safer path, and guided them himself for a quarter 
of a league, leading the way with remarkable agility and address. 
When he had put them on the road, he wished them good night 
and good luck. 

“ Well !” said he to them, “ I shall see you again soon, for, 
certainly, you will both remain there. I shall go to see you, if 
you do not come to me. I do not often go to the city, but there 
are occasions — and that which is preparing — ” 

“ What occasion ?” asked PAmi-du-trait. 

“ It is well, it is well/’ returned Vaudois. “ You are right 
not to speak of that. I am not of your trade, and am supposed to 
know nothing about it. I honor discretion, and do not wish to 
confound it with mistrust in what relates to me ; though, after 
all, when we belong to the same devoir, we might well confide 
certain things to each other. No matter ! the affair is still a 
secret, and you will do well not to talk about it before it is made 
public. Till we meet again, then, and may the great Solomon 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


73 


be with you ! The moon has risen ; take the right hand, then 
the left, and then straight on till you reach the highway.” 

He clasped their hands and resumed the road to his cottage. 
But the two friends long heard his manly and strongly accented 
voice sing, as it was lost by degrees, these last verses of a long 
and simple song of which he was the author : 

Once on the glorious tour of France 
I travelled far with wandering feet, 

I never went in diligence — 

Strong legs and twenty years were fleet 
Good looks I had, without pretence. 

Labor and love and pleasures sweet : 

Hope now remains for my defence, 

A joyous heart, good eyes and feet. 

Friends, on the glorious tour of France 
I well have tired my dusty feet, 

And in the workshops of Provence 
Have worn my arms in labor sweet. 

' Long nights Pve passed in dreams of science. 

And thus have flown my pleasures sweet ; 

Now in the arms of Providence 
My pious heart repose can meet. 

“ Worthy and honest man !” said Pierre, stopping to listen to 
him. “ Amaury, Amaury, is it not beautiful to hear the song 
of a good man ? That manly and strong voice which fills the 
air, throwing its artless rhymes to all the echoes, is it not like a 
triumphant hymn of the conscience ? Here we are upon the 
highway : does that fine carriage which rolls so smoothly bear 
such pure hearts ? No ! not a human voice escapes from that 
travelling mansion, in which all the comforts of life accompany 
the rich. There is a trader upon a good and strong horse ; he 
carries a heavy valise, and the handles of his pistols glitter in 
the moonlight. Yet, see ! he fears us, he suspects us — he draws 
his horse’s bridle, and takes the other side of the road in order to 
avoid passing near us. His horse is laden with gold, and his 
soul with care ; his journey is anxious and silent. Poor traf- 
ficker, do you hear that joyous cadence, there at the bottom of 
the ravine of the Loire ? Do you suppose that such an echoing 
song can come from an invalided old man without family, with- 


74 


THE COMPANION 


out money, without weapons, and without support other than a 
wooden leg and the hearts of some friends as poor as himself?” 

“ What you say strikes me,” returned Amaury, “ and, I 
know not why, my eyes fill with tears on hearing that song. 
Explain this to me, Pierre, you who explain so many things.” 

“ God is great, and man also !” replied Pierre, with a sigh. 

“ What do you mean by that ?” asked his comrade. 

“ There would be too much to say, my Corinthian, and the 
best way will be to talk of something else,” said l’Ami-du-trait, 
resuming his walk. “ You must explain to me the last words 
which the Yaudois said on leaving us. I do not know to what 
great affair and great secret he referred.” 

“ How !” cried Amaury, “ do you not know what is doing at 
Blois between the devorants and us ? I thought that you had 
received a letter of notice, and that you were going to the meet- 
ing of our brothers.” 

“I am going to Blois on business which is entirely personal, 
and of which the half is accomplished, my friend, unless I flatter 
myself with a vain hope.” 

Here Pierre explained to the Corinthian the need he had of two 
good workmen to assist him in his undertaking, and communi- 
cated his desire to commence his enlisting with him. He praised 
the beauty of the work in which he wished to associate him, 
made to him very advantageous offers, and besought him not to 
reject them. 

“ Certainly, it would be a great satisfaction to my heart to 
work with you,” replied Amaury, “ and your offers surpass my 
demands; but you shall yourself judge if I can make use of my 
liberty at this moment. Learn, then, that our devoir of liberty 
is about to play the city of Blois against the devoir devorant .” 

As all our readers will not perhaps understand, as well as 
Pierre Huguenin was enabled to do, this strange revelation, we 
will explain it to them in a few words. When two rival socie- 
ties have established their devoirs in a city, they can seldom 
remain at peace. The least infraction of the truce silently 
agreed upon produces violent ruptures. On the least occasion, 
and sometimes without occasion, they contend for the exclusive 
occupation of the city, and the contention sometimes lasts for 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


75 


years in the midst of bloody episodes. At last, when disputes, 
oratorical debates, and blows have decided nothing between par- 
ties equal in obstinacy, in strength and demands, there is a final 
way of settling the question : this is, to play the city, that is to 
say, the right to occupy the place and obtain the work, to the ex- 
clusion of the losing party. It is now one hundred and ten 
years (this is a historical fact) since the stone-cutters of Solomon, 
otherwise called compagnons Strangers or loups (foreign journey- 
men or wolves), played the city of Lyons for a hundred years 
against the stone-cutters of Master Jacques, called compagnons 
passants or loups-garous (travelling journeymen or man- wolves). 
The last lost it, and, for one hundred years, the compact was 
religiously observed. No compagnon passant set foot upon the 
domain of the compagnons etrangers. But, latterly, the term of 
the treaty having expired, the banished thought they had a right 
to return and exploit* a country which had again become free. 
The children of Solomon were not of the same opinion ; they 
found their position a good one, and pretended that a hundred 
years’ possession must give them an imprescriptible right. The 
two societies parleyed, they could not come to an understanding ; 
they fought ; the authorities intervened to separate the combat- 
ants. Several champions of both parties had committed such 
excesses that they were sent to prison, even to the galleys. But 
the law, not protecting and not acknowledging this method of the 
organization of labor in masonic societies, could not decide the 
dispute. The case is still pending in the secret tribunals of the 
companionship, and it is to be feared that many heroes of the 
tour of France may yet lose their blood or their liberty upon 
this question. Let us hope that the philosophical attempts of 
some among those companions, enlightened and generous minds, 
who have recently undertaken the great work of union among all 
the rival devoirs, will yet overcome the prejudices against which 

* The French verb exploiter means to farm, to improve, to speculate 
upon, to employ the labor of another, these two last generally in a bad 
sense ; as there is no corresponding word in English, I have thought it best 
to use one derived from the French, having therein the support of a very 
eminent American authority. — Trans. 


76 


THE COMPANION 


they have to contend, and will cause the principle of fraternity 
to triumph. 

We have still a word to say respecting the nature of the trial 
to which these differences have hitherto been submitted. Re- 
course is not had to chance, but to competition. On each side a 
piece of work is executed, equivalent to what, in the ancient 
wardenships of the trades, was called the master-piece. It is well 
known, that, in the former organization by brotherhoods or cor- 
porations, no one could be admitted to the mastership without 
having presented that piece to the judgment of the syndics, skil- 
ful craftsmen, sworn to ascertain the capacity of the aspirant.* 
Hoffmann has devoted one of his tales (that which he could, by 
good right, have himself called his master-piece), Master Martin 
the Cooper , to poetizing that beautiful phase of an apprentice’s 
life, which embraces his presentation to the mastership, the ex- 
ecution of the master-piece, the reception of the new master, &c. 
Now that the mastership is no longer an acquired and disputed 
right, but a free and optional fact, we do not see the master-piece 
reappear publicly except in the challenges of the companionship. 
When they determine to play a city, the competition is under- 
taken. Each party chooses, among its most skilful members, 
one or several champions, who labor with ardor to confound the 
pride of their rivals by the production of a difficult piece pro- 
posed for competition. The jury is composed of arbiters chosen 
indifferently from the several devoirs, and sometimes from among 
masters unconnected with any society, or old companions retired 
from the association, and considered incorruptible, and most fre- 
quently from among those of the profession. Their sentence is 
without appeal. Whatever dissatisfaction, whatever secret mur- 
murs it may occasion, the party vanquished in its representative 
is obliged to leave the place for a longer or shorter time, accord- 
ing to the arrangements agreed upon before the trial. 

Such was the decisive crisis in which the devoirs of Blois 

* The organization here referred to still prevails in some parts of Eu- 
rope, and from the time and labor required to produce the master-piece, 
its operation is to keep many skilful workmen always dependent as jour- 
neymen. It is also still required in some associations for the reception of 
the compagnon. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


77 


were placed at the time of Pierre and Amaury’s arrival. The 
gavots, who had occupied Blois for a few years only, made vio- 
lent struggles to maintain themselves there against the other more 
anciently established societies. The war had already broken out 
at several points. The carpenters called Drilles, or dupere Sou - 
bise, were not less inveterate against the gavot joiners than were 
the devorant joiners. In face of so many threatening enemies, 
the gavots had thought to protect themselves from the violence 
of the devorants, at least, by the truce required for a competi- 
tion ; and, with respect to the carpenters, they hoped to keep them 
respectful by a haughty and courageous attitude. Amaury, be- 
ing one of the best joiners among the gavots, had been sent for 
by the council of his order, and prepared himself, with a strong 
emotion of fear and joy, to enter the lists with several artisans of 
merit, his emulators, against the elect of the devorant artists. 

It was not without some pride that he confided this to his 
friend ; but he immediately added with an affectionate and sin- 
cere modesty : 

“ I am much astonished, dear Villepreux, at being called, and 
seeing that you have not been ; for, if there is a workman supe- 
rior to all others, and in all things, it is not the Corinthian, but 
indeed l’Ami-du-trait.” 

“ I accept that eulogium only as a sweet and generous illusion 
of your friendship for me,” replied Pierre. “ And even if I 
should be so foolish as to believe in the merit which you attribute 
to me, I should have no reason to complain of the forgetfulness 
in which I have been left. That forgetfulness I have sought for, 
I confess to you, and I should not leave it without strong opposi- 
tion on my own part. When, after four years of pilgrimage, I 
again took the road to my village, I so arranged it that my with- 
drawal was not remarked upon the tour of France. I made no 
solemn farewells ; I departed one fine morning, after having ful- 
filled all my engagements, and repaid all services rendered by 
equivalent services. I do not think that any one has any re- 
proach to make against me ; and, if I am accused of a little 
eccentricity, no one can accuse me of ingratitude. I felt the 
need of leaving this agitated life, I thirsted for my native air. 
Everything that retained me a single day seemed to be con- 


78 


THE COMPANION 


straint ; and, during the two months I have been working with 
my father, I have not renewed my connexion with any of my 
old friends.” 

“ Not even with me ? ” said Amaury, in a tone of reproach. 

“ I depended upon the Providence which reunites this day, and 
I experience so great a necessity of living near you, that I cannot 
conceive a sweeter joy than that of carrying you with me, if 
possible. But it is not always a solace to write to those you love, 
when you are suffering. Far the contrary, there are certain mo- 
ral situations in which you do not dare to express your feelings, 
for fear of discouraging yourself, or discouraging those who are 
dear to you. Could I, moreover, have made you understand a 
melancholy which I do not myself understand ? You would 
have had the same suspicions respecting me which Vaudois ex- 
pressed just now. A letter can never take place of the effusion 
of an interview.” 

“ That is true,” said Amaury, “ but if your conduct is natural 
in this, the sadness which dictated it is more and more strange 
to my eyes. I have always known you grave, reflecting, sober, 
and avoiding tumult ; but I saw you so cordial, so benevolent, 
so ardent in friendship, that I do not understand your present 
savageness and the kind of estrangement you testify for the de- 
voir. Have you suffered any injustice 1 You know that in such 
a case you have a right to reparation. The council is assembled, 
the complaints are made, and the chief of the society decides 
equitably.” 

“ On the contrary, I have had only reason to be satisfied with 
my companions,” replied Pierre. “ I esteem almost all those 
whom I have been specially acquainted with, and I love some of 
them ardently. I believe that my devoir is the best organized 
and the most honorable of all ; it was on this account that, after 
a certain examination of the customs and regulations, I embraced 
it ic preference to the others, in which I seemed to see less liberal 
usages, a less advanced civilization. It is possible I may have 
been deceived, but I acted in the loyalty of my heart, when I 
enrolled myself under the white and blue banner. Our laws 
proscribe the topage, howlings ; and, if the general custom still 
compels us to cross canes often, at least the spirit of our institu- 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


79 


tion seems to forbid those fanatical provocations which the spirit 
of the other societies proclaims and sanctions. But if you abso- 
lutely wish me to confide to you the causes of the secret disgust 
which has seized upon me, I will open to you my whole heart. 

I would not wish to chill your enthusiasm, or to shake in you 
that lively faith in the devoir, which is the mover and spring in 
the life of a companion. Still I must indeed confess to you how 
far that faith has departed from me. Alas, yes ! the sacred fire 
of the esprit du corps abandons me more and more. In propor- 
tion as I become enlightened respecting the true history of the 
people, the fable of the temple of Solomon seems to me a childish 
mystery, a gross allegory. The feeling of a destiny common to 
all who labor is revealed in me, and this barbarous custom of 
creating distinctions, castes, inimical camps between us all, ap- 
pears to me more and more savage and fatal. What ! is it not 
enough that we have for natural enemies all those who exploit 
our labors for their profit ? Must we still devour each other ? 
Oppressed by the cupidity of the rich, reduced by the weak 
pride of the nobles into a supposedly abject condition, compelled 
by the cowardly complicity of the priests to bear eternally upon 
our bruised arms the Saviour’s cross, the insignia of which they 
wear in gold and silk, are we not sufficiently outraged, sufficiently 
unhappy ? Must we still, while suffering from the inequality 
which casts us into the lowest rank, seek to consecrate among 
ourselves that absurd and culpable inequality ? We laugh at 
the pretensions of the great ; we smile at their coats of arms and 
their liveries ; we hold their genealogies in execration and con- 
tempt: still, what do we, other than imitate them ? We dispute 
for precedence in rival societies ; we foolishly boast the antiquity 
of our origin ; and we have not enough satirical songs, not 
enough insults, threats, and outrages, for the newly formed socie- 
ties, which seem to us stained by low origin and illegitimacy. 
Upon all the soil of France, we provoke each other, we cut each 
other’s throats for the right of wearing exclusively the square 
and the compass ; as if every man who labors in the sweat of 
his brow, had not the right to clothe himself in the insignia of his 
profession ! The color of a ribbon placed a little higher or lower, 
the ornament of an ear-ring, such are the important questions 


80 


THE COMPANION 


which foment the hatred and spill the blood of poor workmen. 
When I think of it, I laugh with pity ; or rather, I weep with 
shame.” 

Emotion prevented the young reformer from continuing his 
ardent declamation. His heart was full ; but he had not words 
enough to throw forth the generous indignation which suffocated 
him. He stopped, his chest oppressed, his brow burning. 
“ Amaury, Amaury ! ” cried he in a stifled voice, seizing his 
companion’s arm, “ you wished to know the cause of my suffer- 
ing ; I have told you, and it seems to me that you must under- 
stand me. I am neither a fool, nor a dreamer, nor ambitious, 
nor a traitor ; but I love the men of my race, and I am unhappy 
because they hate each other.” 

Impartial critic (benevolent reader, as we formerly said), be 
indulgent to the incompetent translator who transmits to you the 
words of the artisan. That man does not speak the same lan- 
guage as you do, and the narrator who serves him as interpreter, 
is compelled to alter the abrupt beauty, the original turn and 
poetical abundance of his text, in order to communicate to you 
his thoughts. Perhaps you will accuse this weak intermediator 
of lending to his heroes, feelings and ideas which they cannot 
have. To that reproach he has but one word in answer : inform 
yourself. Leave those heights on which the literary muse has 
so long kept herself isolated from the great mass of the human 
race. Descend into those regions whence comic poetry draws 
so largely for the stage, and for caricatures ; deign to look upon 
the serious face of that pensive and deeply inspired people, whom 
you believe to be still uncultivated and rude. You will there 
see more than one Pierre Huguenin at this moment. Look, look, 
I adjure you, and do not pronounce upon him the unjust sentence 
which condemns him to vegetate in ignorance and ferocity. 
Know his defects and his vices, for he has such, and I will not 
gloss them over to you ; but know also his greatness and his 
virtues : and you will feel yourself, at your contact with him, 
more artless and more generous than you have been for a long 
while. 

What is admirable in the people, is simplicity of heart ; that 
holy simplicity, lost to us, alas ! since the enormous abuse we 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


81 


have made of the form of our thoughts. Among the people, 
every form is new, and truth, under that of common place, still 
draws from them tears of enthusiasm and conviction. O noble 
childhood of the soul ! source of fatal errors, of sublime illusions 
and heroical devotedness, shame to every one who exploits thee ! 
Love and blessing upon every one who shall cause thee to enter 
into manhood, while preserving thy purity without ignorance ! 

In consequence of this candor which dwells in the depths of 
uncultivated souls, the word of Pierre Huguenin would meet 
with few obstacles in the good minds of his class, and that of his 
friend the Corinthian did not revolt in a sharp discussion. He 
listened to him a long while in silence ; then he said, clasping 
his hand : “ Pierre, Pierre, you know much more than 1 do upon 
such matters, and I can find nothing to answer you. I feel sad 
with you, and know of no remedy for our evil.” 

5 * 


82 


THE COMPANION 


CHAPTER X. 

Very curious researches would be necessary to discover, in 
the past, the causes of the enmity which prevailed in those 
dissensions of which Pierre Huguenin complained, among the 
different associations of workmen. But a profound darkness 
covers them. The workmen, if they know, conceal them well ; 
and I believe that they are no better informed than we. What 
signifies, for example, that interminable and bloody question of 
the murder of Hiram in the workshops of the temple at Jerusalem, 
between the two most ancient societies, that of Solomon and that 
of master Jacques, otherwise called also the Devoir and the Devoir 
of liberty ? — a question which the greater part of the companions 
look upon as serious and in the most material light. Each 
society sends back to its rival this terrible accusation ; each 
strives to wash its hands of it ; they put on gloves in the solem- 
nities of the order to testify that they are pure from this crime : 
they provoke, beat, and kill each other, to avenge the memory 
of Hiram, the superintendent of the labors of the temple, assas- 
sinated and hidden under the rubbish by a jealous and cruel 
portion of his workmen. There is doubtless herein some great 
historical fact, or some vital principle of the past and the future 
of the people, hidden under a fiction which is not devoid of 
poetry. But, as in the earlier ages, the myth is understood 
literally by the workmen, a true race of children, imbued with 
all the credulous illusions, with all the unconquered instincts, with 
all the tender and candid impulses of childhood. Yes, dear and 
wondering reader, the people represent to you a giant in the 
cradle, who begins to feel life overflow in his powerful chest, 
and who raises himself to try his unsteady steps upon the brink 
of an abyss. Which will fall therein, he or we? Madame! 
madame ! hasten to be beautiful and to display your diamonds. 
Perhaps they have been dipped in the blood of Hiram, and 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


S3 


perhaps you will one day be obliged to hide them or to cast them 
far from you. 

Some well-informed and studious workmen (for there are such, 
and this is not the least certain fact of which I can assure you*) 
have philosophically sought to raise the veil from this mystery. 
Some attribute the creation of their order to the ruin of the order of 
the temple, and, according to them, the famous master Jacques, head 
carpenter of Solomon, could have been no other than the Grand 
Master Jacques de Molay, a martyr sacrificed by an avaricious 
and cruel king of the name of Philip. According to others, we 
must ascend still higher into the past and search for the source 
of this inextinguishable aversion, in the resentment of the races 
disinherited and persecuted in the South of France, of the Albi- 
genses, or inhabitants of the banks of the gaves f (thence gavots), 
against the executioners of the North and the Dominican 
inquisitors. And we, we can, if we will, suppose that all those 
great insurrections, of shepherds, of Vaudois, of Protestants and 
of Calvinists, all more or less partisans or continuers of the 
doctrine of the eternal gospel, w'ho have, at different epochs, 
watered with their blood the plains and roads of France, have 
not been smothered without many bitter recollections, many 
fatal resentments, and have remained existing and been handed 
down in heritage from generation to generation until our day. 
The cause is forgotten, lost, or denaturalized in the night of 
tradition, but the passion subsists. Do not go into Corsica to 
seek for the poetical tragedy of the Vendetta : it is at your door, 
it is in your house. The stone-cutter who built the walls of 
your house is the irreconcilable enemy of the carpenter who 
covered it ; and for a word, for a sign, for a look, their blood has 
flowed upon this stone, escutcheon of their nobility, mystic 
foundation of their right. 

There are two societies whose foundation is immemorial ; we 

* I wrote this in 1841. Two years have not yet passed, and already the 
facts which I have attested have become evident and numerous. In ten 
years people will be astonished that I should have been obliged to affirm 
the uprightness and cultivation of the popular mind to a class of readers 
who accuse me of extravagance and paradox. 

f Gave means torrent, among the Pyrenees. 


84 


THE COMPANION 


have named them.* From these two societies, or from one of them, 
has issued a third society, enemy of the two others : that of the 
Union or the Independents, called the Revoltes. It was originated 
in Bordeaux, in 1830, by candidates who revolted against their 
companions. At Lyons, at Marseilles, at Nantes, numerous 
insurgents of the same order joined themselves to them and consti- 
tuted the Union. A fourth society is that of Father Soubise, 
which also calls itself devorant. Thus there are four principal 
societies or devoirs, which are each composed of several trades, 
and to which are attached numerous adjunct institutions, more or 
less recent, some cordially accepted, others violently repelled by 
the societies to which they wish to unite themselves by good-will 
or by force. 

A whole book would be required to enumerate all the societies, 
their pretensions, their titles, their statutes, their origins, their 
customs, and their mutual relations. Such a society is allied to 
another: for example, the children of Father Soubise pride 
themselves on being, like those of master Jacques, companions 
of the devoir, and live in no better understanding with the latter 
on that account. Such another society is born enemy of such 
another. In the bosom of the same devoir there are trades 
which tolerate each other, others which support each other, others 
which hate each other mortally. In general, the newly formed 
societies are rejected by the pride of the ancient ones, and only 
acquire their right of admission into the companionship at the 
price of their blood. Each devoir has its code. In some there 
are two grades ; in others three and four. The condition of the 
candidate is happy or miserable, according to the despotic or 
liberal spirit of the society. Finally, all these different and 
differing camps are united under one same appellation, the 
companions of the tour of France. Each society has its cities 
of devoir, in which the companions can station themselves, be 
instructed in work, sharing in them the assistance, help, and 
protection of a body of companions who are generally entitled the 
society, and the members of which are fixed or renewed according 

* See the Book of Companionship, by Agricol Perdiguier, called Avig- 
nonnais-la-Vertu. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


85 


to their interests or their necessities. When they are too 
numerous to subsist, some among those first arrived are obliged 
to give place to the last comers. 

Certain cities may be occupied by different devoirs ; certain 
others are the exclusive field of a single devoir, either from 
ancient custom, or from a transaction similar to what happened 
in the hundred years’ bargain of the city of Lyons. Certain 
bases are common to all the devoirs and to all the trades which 
compose them : and looking upon them as a whole, these principal 
bases are noble and generous. The embauchage (enrolling), 
that is, the admission of the workman to labor ; the levage d ’ acquit 
(settlement of accounts), that is, the guarantee of his honor ; the 
connexion of the journeyman with the master ; the conduite, that 
is, the fraternal farewells, established as ceremonies ; the care 
and assistance granted to the sick, the honors paid to the dead, 
the celebration of patronal fetes, and many other customs, are 
about the same in all the companionship. The difference consists 
in the external forms, the formulas, the titles, the insignia, the 
colors, the songs, &c. 

The majority of the workmen in the provinces are enrolled in 
the companionship. A small portion are ignorant of its impor- 
tance, and do not think to pierce its mysteries. In the inland 
provinces, where a trade is almost always hereditary, the son 
or the nephew is naturally the apprentice of the master. In 
those existences fixed beforehand and but little anxious to perfect 
the art, the companionship is useless and the tour of France 
unused. 

Certain trades have had devoirs which have been lost ; that is, 
their statutes, being no longer necessary for their organiza- 
tion and security, have fallen into disuse.* Fellow feeling, 
political bonds, are sufficient for those companies, more enlight- 
ened, perhaps, but perhaps less united also. At Paris, the 
companionship tends each day more and more to be lost and 
dispersed, in the vast field of different labors and interests. No 

* It has been the case that the usages of certain societies originated too 
far back in the middle ages to be observed at this day. The new adepts 
recoiled at the barbarism of practices which the old members wished in 
vain to preserve. 


86 


THE COMPANION 


society could monopolize the work. Besides, the sceptical spirit 
of a more advanced civilization has done justice to the Gothic 
customs of the companionship, perhaps too soon ; for a fraternal 
association extended to all laborers was not yet ready to replace 
the partial associations. Still, the hatreds of party are not 
always effaced. The carpenters, companions of liberty , there 
inhabit the left bank of the Seine ; their adversaries, the carpen- 
ters, travelling companions, occupy the right bank. They are 
bound by an agreement to work on that side of the river where 
their domicil is fixed. They fight, nevertheless, and the other 
societies are not always tolerant towards each other. But in 
general it may be said that the companionship, with its powers 
and its passions, is there lost and absorbed in the bosom of the 
great movement which carries everything forward in an inde- 
pendent and sustained march. 

That which preserves the importance of the companionship in 
the provinces, is the teaching, the warlike ardor, the spirit of as- 
sociation, and the habit of a regular association infused into a 
mass of young persons, who bring to it an enterprising charac- 
ter, the love of progress, the necessity of escaping from isolation, 
from ignorance and poverty. These are the noble forlorn hopes 
of the great family of workingmen, the Bohemian artists of in- 
dustry, the audacious Mamertines of primitive Rome. Some are 
impelled by the rude despotism of the family which oppresses and 
exploits them ; others, by the want of family and of capital to 
commence with, a lost situation, disappointed love, a feeling of 
legitimate pride ; and, above all, the desire to see, to breathe, and 
to live, drives into it each year the chosen spirits of ardent youth. 
The tour of France is the poetical phase, the adventurous pil- 
grimage, the knight-errantry of the artisan. He who has neither 
home nor patrimony goes upon the road to seek a country, under 
the aegis of an adoptive family which does not abandon him 
either during his life or after his death. Even he who aspires 
to an honorable and sure position in his native place, wishes, at 
the least, to expend the vigor of his youth and know the excite- 
ments of active life. He must return to the fold and accept the 
laborious and sedentary condition of his neighbors. Perhaps, in 
the whole course of that future life, he will not again find a year, 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


87 


a season, a week of liberty. Well ! he must put an end to this 
vague uneasiness which besieges him ; he must travel. He will 
resume the file or the hammer of his fathers later in life ; but 
he will have recollections and impressions, he will have seen the 
world, he will be able to tell his friends and children how beau- 
tiful and how great is their father-land ; he will have made his 
tour of France. 

I think that this digression was necessary for the understand- 
ing of my recital. Now, dear readers, and you, good compa- 
nions, permit me to run after my heroes, who have not stopped, as 
I have done, upon the banks of the Loire. 


88 


THE COMPANION 


CHAPTER XI. 

They reached Blois just as the clock of the Cathedral was strik- 
ing ten. They had rested enough at the Bower of wisdom not to 
feel any fatigue from this last stint, accomplished while convers- 
ing pleasantly by the light of the stars. They directed their 
steps towards the Mother of their devoir. 

By Mother is understood the inn at which a society of com- 
panions lodges, eats, and holds its meetings. The hostess of that 
inn is also called the mother ; even the host, if a bachelor, is 
called mother. It is not unusual to play upon these words, and 
call a good old innkeeper the father mother. 

About a year had passed since Amaury the Corinthian had 
left Blois. Pierre had remarked that as they approached the 
city, his friend had listened to him less attentively. But when 
they had passed the first houses he was much astonished at his 
agitation. 

“ What is the matter with you ?” said he to him ; “ sometimes 
you walk so fast that I find it difficult to keep up with you, at 
others so slowly that 1 am obliged to wait for you. You stumble 
at every step, and seem agitated as if you both feared and de- 
sired to reach the end of our journey.” 

“ Do not question me, dear Villepreux,” replied the Corin- 
thian. “ I am agitated, I confess ; but I cannot tell you the 
cause. I have never had any secrets from you, excepting one, 
which I will perhaps confide to you some day ; but it seems to 
me that the time has not yet come.” 

Pierre did not insist, and they reached the mother’s in a few 
moments. The inn was situated on the left bank of the Loire, 
in the suburb which the river separates from the city. It was 
neat and well kept, as usual, and the two friends recognised the 
maid-servant and the dog of the house. But the host did not 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


89 


come as usual to meet them and embrace them fraternally. 
“ Where then is our friend Savinien '?” asked Amaury with un- 
steady voice. The servant made him a sign as if to cut short 
his words, and pointed to a little girl who was saying her prayers 
in the chimney-corner, and who, prepared to go to bed, had her 
little night-cap already on. Amaury thought that the maid de- 
sired him not to disturb the child’s prayer. He bent over the 
little Manette, and lightly touched with his lips the long curls of 
brown hair which escaped from her open-work cap. Pierre be- 
gan to guess the Corinthian’s secret on seeing the tenderness full 
of grief with which he gazed upon the child. 

“ M. Villepreux,” said the servant in a low voice, drawing 
Pierre Huguenin to a little distance, “ you must not speak of 
our dead master before the little one : it always makes her cry, 
poor dear soul ! We buried M. Savinien only a fortnight ago. 
Our mistress has suffered a good deal.” 

Hardly had she said these words when a door opened, and the 
widow of Savinien, she who was called the mother, appeared in 
mourning and with a widow’s cap. She was a woman of about 
twenty-eight, beautiful as one of Raphael’s virgins, with the same 
regularity of feature and the same expression of a calm and no- 
ble sweetness. The traces of a recent and profound sorrow were 
upon her face, and rendered her only the more touching ; for 
there was also in her look the feeling of an angelic strength. 

She carried in her arms her second child half undressed and 
already asleep, a great fat boy, blond as amber, fresh as the morn- 
ing. At first she saw only Pierre Huguenin, upon whom the 
light of the lamp fell. 

“ My son Villepreux,” cried she with an affectionate and me- 
lancholy smile, “ you are welcome, and, as always, dear. Alas ! 
You have now only a mother ! Your father Savinien is in hea- 
ven with the good God.” 

At that voice the Corinthian had quickly turned ; at those 
words a cry escaped from the depths of his bosom. 

“ Savinien dead !” cried he ; “ Savinienne a widow conse- 
quently — !” 

And he sank into a chair. 

At that voice, at those words, the resigned calmness of the Sa^ 


90 


THE COMPANION 


vinienne* changed into so strong an emotion, that, in order not to 
let her child fall, she placed him in Pierre Huguenin’s arms. 
She made a step towards the Corinthian ; then she stopped, con- 
fused, undecided; and the Corinthian, who had risen to rush 
towards her, fell again upon his chair and hid his face in the hair 
of little Manette, who, kneeling between his knees, had burst into 
sobs at the mere name of her father. 

The mother then recovered her presence of mind ; and, com- 
ing towards him, said to him with dignity : “ See the sorrow of 
this child. She has lost a good father ; and you, Corinthian, you 
have lost a good friend.” 

“We will weep for him together,” said Amaury, without dar- 
ing to look at her or to take the hand she extended to him. 

“ Not together,” replied the Savinienne, lowering her voice ; 
“ but I esteem you too much to think that you will not regret 
him.” 

At this moment the door of the back-hall opened, and Pierre 
saw about thirty journeymen at table. They had taken their 
repast so peaceably that no one would have suspected the vicini- 
ty of a meeting of young people. Since the death of Savinien, 
from respect to his memory as much as from the mourning of his 
family, they ate almost in silence, drank moderately, and no one 
raised his voice. Still, as soon as they saw Pierre Huguenin, 
they could not restrain exclamations of surprise and joy. Some 
came to embrace him, many rose, and all saluted him with their 
caps or their hats ; for those who did not know him, had been 
quickly informed that he was one of the best journeymen of the 
tour of France, and had been first companion at Nimes and dig- 
nitary at Nantes. 

After the enthusiasm of the first welcome, which was no less 
cordial towards Amaury on the part of those who were acquainted 
with him, they were requested to seat themselves at table, and 
the mother, overcoming her emotion with the strength given by 
the habit of labor, began to serve them. 

Huguenin remarked that the maid said to her : 

* In the inland provinces, the custom of the people, who never use, as 
is well known, the word Madame, is to form the name of the wife from 
that of her husband : Raymonet, la Raymonette ; Sylvain , la Sylvaine. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


91 


“ Do not trouble yourself, mistress ; put your little one quietly 
lo bed, I will wait upon these young men.” 

And he also remarked that the Savinienne replied : 

“ No, I will wait upon them myself ; do you put the children 
to bed.” 

Then she gave a kiss to each of them, and carried the supper 
to the Corinthian with an earnestness which betokened a secret 
anxiety. She also served Huguenin with the care, the good 
grace and the neatness which made of her the pearl of mothers, 
as all the companions said. But an invincible preference made 
her pass and repass incessantly behind the Corinthian’s chair. 
She did not look at him, she did not touch him when she leant 
over him to serve him ; but she forestalled all his wishes, and 
was inwardly troubled to see that he made useless efforts to eat. 

“ Dear and faithful companions,” said Lyonnais la-Belle-con- 
duite (Good conduct), filling his glass, “ I drink to the health of 
Villepreau l’Ami-du-trait and of Nantais le Corinthien, without 
separating their names, since their hearts are united for life. 
They are brothers in Solomon, and their friendship recalls that 
of our poet Nantais Pret-a-bien-faire for his dear Percheron 
and he sang with a manly voice these two verses of the joiner 
poet : — 


“ Those who have no friends 
Are very unhappy on the earth.” 

“ Well said, but badly sung,” said Bordelais le-Cceur-aimable 
(Amiable heart). 

“ How, badly sung ?” cried Lyonnais la-Belle-conduite. 
“ Do you wish me to sing to you — 

“ Glory to Percheron le chapiteau* 

Let us pay homage to his science,” — ? 

“ Bad ! bad ! still more bad !” returned Coeur-aimable. 
“ Singing unseasonably is always singing badly.” And a look 
towards the mother recalled the singer to order. 

« l je t him sing,” said the Savinienne, with gentleness. “ Do 


The capital of a column. 


92 


THE COMPANION 


not thwart him for so small a matter. When one sings friend- 
ship, moreover — ” 

“ If we begin we cannot stop,” observed Cceur-aimable, “ and 
when we have made a resolution not to sing without necessity — ” 

“We must keep it,” interrupted Belle-conduite. “ That is 
right ; I thank you, brother ; I was wrong. But we can drink 
a glass in honor of the friends, even two — ” 

“ Not more than three beyond thirst,” said Marseillais V En- 
fant-du-genie (The child of genius) ; “ That is the rule. We 
must have no noise here. What would the devorants say if 
they heard an uproar in the house of a mother in mourning ? 
Besides, which of us would wish to grieve ours, the beautiful, 
the good, the honest, the orderly Savinienne ?” 

“ It is to her that I empty my second cup,” cried Lyonnais 
la-Belle-conduite. “ Don’t you touch glasses, pays ?”* added 
he, seeing that Amaury extended his with a trembling hand. 
“ Has he a fever, the pays ?” 

“ Silence on that point,” said Morvandais Sans-crainte in the 
ear of his neighbor Belle-conduite. " That pays wanted to say 
soft things f a while ago, to the mother, but she was too honest 
a woman to listen to him.” 

“ I believe it indeed !” returned Belle-conduite. “ Still he is a 
pretty companion, white as a woman, with fine golden hair, and 
his chin is like a peach ; strong and solid, too. They say he 
has talent ?” 

“ If not more, at least as much as T Ami-du-trait, and no more 
rivalry between them in talent than in love.” 

“ Speak lower,” said l’Enfant-du-genie, who, seated next, had 
heard them ; “ here is the dignitary, and if you speak slight- 
ingly of the mother before him, it may go further than you 
wish.” 

“ No one speaks slightingly, my dear pays,” replied Sans- 
crainte. 

The dignitary entered. On recognising Romanet le-Bon-sou - 

* The stonecutters of both parties call each other by the name of cote- 
rie ; all the companions of other trades are addressed as pays , or Mon- 
sieur. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


93 


lien (good support), Pierre Huguenin rose, and they retired to 
another room in order to exchange the customary salutations ; 
for they were both dignitaries, and could march side by side. 
Still the dignity of l’Ami-du-trait was now only honorary. It was 
a power which lasted only six months, and which two companions 
could not exercise in the same city. The present authority of 
Romanet le-Bon-soutien could therefore extend, in the place of 
his residence, over Pierre Huguenin as over a simple companion. 

When they returned to the hall, and the dignitary of Blois 
perceived Amaury the Corinthian, he became pale, and they 
embraced with emotion. 

“ You are welcome,” said the dignitary to the young man. 
“ I desired that you should be called to the competition, and I 
see, with satisfaction, that you have accepted. I thank you in 
the name of the society. My pays, this young man is gifted 
with a most pleasing talent : you will judge of it. Pays Corin- 
thian,’ 5 added he, addressing Amaury more particularly, and 
endeavoring not to appear to attach too much importance to his 
question, “ did you know that we had lost our excellent father 
Savinien ?” 

“ I did not, and am much grieved at it,” replied Amaury with 
a tone of frankness which reassured the dignitary. 

“ And you, pays,” resumed Bon-soutien, addressing Pierre 
Huguenin, “ when one takes the name of l’Ami-du-trait he is 
modest as well as skilful. If we had known where to find you, 
we should have invited you to the competition, but since you 
testify by your presence that you have not abandoned the holy 
devoir of liberty, we beseech and request you to place yourself 
also in the ranks. We have few artists of your power.” 

“ I thank you heartily,” replied Huguenin ; “ but I have not 
come for the competition. I have engagements which will not 
permit me to remain here. I require assistants, and I come in 
the name of my father, who is master, to enlist two journey- 
men.” 

“ Perhaps you might enlist them and send them to your father 
in your stead. When the honor of the devoir of liberty is 
at stake, there are few engagements which may not and should 
not be broken.” 


94 


THE COMPANION 


“ Mine are of such a nature,” replied Pierre, “ that I cannot 
withdraw from them. My father’s honor and my own are in- 
volved.” 

“ In that case you are free,” said the dignitary. There was 
a moment’s silence. At the table were seated companions of 
three orders : received companions, finished companions, initiated 
companions. There was also a number of simple affiliates ; 
for a great principle of equality prevails among the gavots ; 
all the orders eat, discuss, and vote indiscriminately. Now, 
among all these young men, there was not a single one who did 
not earnestly wish to take part in the competition. As the 
choice was to be made from the most skilful, many had no 
hope of being called ; and no one could understand how any 
reason could be imperious enough to refuse such an honor. 
They looked at each other, surprised, and even somewhat 
shocked, at Pierre Huguenin’s reply. But the dignitary, who 
wished to avoid all idle discussion, induced the assembly, by his 
manner, not to express their dissatifaction. 

“ You know,” said he, “ that the general meeting takes place 
to-morrow, Sunday. The rouleur * has given you notice. I 
request you all to be there, my dear pays. And you also, pays 
Villepreux l’Ami-du-trait. You can aid us by your advice : 
that will be a method of still helping the society. As to the 
workmen you desire, we will see about procuring them for you.” 

“ I would remark to you,” replied Huguenin, lowering his 
voice, “ that I must have workmen of the highest merit ; for the 
business I have to intrust to them is very delicate, and requires 
great skill.” 

“ Oh ! oh !” said the rouleur, laughing rather disdainfully, 
“ you’ll not find any until after the competition ; for every man 
who feels that he has talents and heart wishes to compete. You 
will not even have the first choice ; we shall secure that for our 
glorious contest.” 

The meal being ended, the companions, before separating, 

* The duty of the rouleur (or roleur) is to present the workmen to the 
masters, who wish to enlist them, and to confirm their engagement by cer- 
tain formalities. It is he who accompanies the departing to the bounds 
of the city, settles the accounts, &c. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


95 


formed in groups, to converse respecting matters which interested 
them personally. 

Bordelais le-Coeur-aimable approached Pierre Huguenin and 
Amaury : “ It is strange,” said he to the first, “ that you are 
not willing to compete. If you are the most skilful among us, 
as many pretend, you are to blame for deserting your standard 
on the eve of a battle.” 

“ If I thought that battle useful to the interests and the honor 
of the society,” replied Huguenin, “ I would perhaps sacrifice 
my own interests and even my own honor.” 

“ You are doubtful,” cried Cceur-aimable. “ You think that 
the devorants are more skilful than we ? So much the more 
reason to throw your name and your talent into the scale.” 

“ The devorants have skilful workmen, but we have some 
quite as good ; thus, I form no judgment respecting the result 
of the competition. But, even if we were sure of the victory, I 
should pronounce against the trial.” 

“ Your opinion is a strange one,” returned Cceur-aimable, 
“ and I would advise you not to utter it so freely to pays less 
tolerant than myself ; you would be blamed for it, and they 
would perhaps impute unworthy motives to you.” 

“ I do not understand you,” replied Pierre Huguenin. 

“ But,” answered Cceur-aimable, “ every man who does not 
desire the glory of his country is a bad citizen, and every com- 
panion — ” 

“ I understand you now,” interrupted l’Ami-du-trait ; “ but 
if I proved that, in any event, this competition yvill be prejudi- 
cial to the society, I should be doing the duty of a good com- 
panion.” 

Pierre Huguenin having hitherto replied to these observations 
without any mystery, his words had been heard by some com- 
panions who had assembled around him. The dignitary seeing 
the numbers increase, and their minds become excited, broke up 
the group by saying to Pierre : “ My dear pays, this is neither 
the time nor the place to express an opinion different from that 
of the society. If you have good views respecting our business 
you have the right and freedom to make them known to-morrow 
before the assembly ; and I summon you to be present, certain, 


THE COMPANION 


beforehand, that if your advice is good, it will be followed, and 
that if it is bad your error will be forgiven.” 

They separated at this wise decision. Some of the companions 
present lodged at the mother’s. A small chamber had been got 
ready for Huguenin and Amaury, who were directed thither 
by the servant. The mother had retired before the end of the 
supper. 

When the two friends had lain down in the same bed, accord- 
ing to the ancient custom of the people, Huguenin, yielding to 
fatigue, was about to go to sleep ; but the agitation of his friend 
did not permit him. “ Brother,” said the young man, “ I told 
you that a day would perhaps come when I could confide my 
secret to you. Well, that day has come sooner than I thought. 
I love the Savinienne.” 

“ So I perceived this evening,” replied Pierre. 

“ I could not master my emotion on learning that she was free,” 
returned the Corinthian, “ and a moment of foolish joy betrayed 
me. But the voice of my conscience soon reproached me for 
that culpable feeling, for I was the friend of Savinien. That 
worthy man had a particular affection for me. You know that 
he called me his Benjamin, his Saint John-the-Baptist, his Ra- 
phael : he was not uneducated, and he had poetical expressions 
and ideas. Excellent Savinien ! I would have given my life 
for him, and I would still give it to recall him to the earth ; for 
the Savinienne loved him, and he made her happy. He was a 
much moj’e valuable and more useful man than I.” 

“ I understood all that passed in your heart,” said L’Ami-du- 
trait. 

“ Is it possible ?” 

“We can easily read the hearts of those we love. And now, 
what do you hope ? The Savinienne knows your love, and I 
believe that she returns it. But are you the husband she would 
choose ? Would she not consider you too young and too poor to 
sustain her house and be the father of her children ?” 

“ That is what I say to myself, and what makes me dejected. 
Still, I am industrious ; I have not lost my time upon the tour of 
France, I know my trade. You know that I have no bad habits, 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


97 


and I love her so much, that it does not seem to me she can be 
unhappy with me. Do you think me unworthy of her ?” 

“ Far the contrary, and, if she consulted me, I would dissipate 
the fears she might have.” 

“ Oh ! do it, my friend !” cried the Corinthian, “ speak to her 
of me. Try to learn what she thinks of me.” 

“ It would be better to know beforehand how far your inti- 
macy has gone,” replied Pierre, smiling. “ The part you intrust 
to me would be less embarrassing both to her and to me.” 

“ I will tell you all,” replied Amaury, with frankness. “ I 
passed about a year here. I was hardly seventeen (I am nine- 
teen now). I was then only affiliated, and I passed to the grade 
of received companion after a short residence, which caused 
Savinien and his wife to have a good opinion of me. I worked 
on the Prefecture which was then under repairs. You know all 
this, since it was you who caused me to be affiliated on my 
arrival, and you did not leave us until six months afterwards. I 
have all these dates in my memory ; since it was on the day of 
your departure for Chartres that I became sensible of the love I 
felt for the Savinienne. I remember the fine farewell we gave 
you on the highway. We had our canes and our ribbons, and 
we followed you in two lines, stopping at every step to drink 
your health. The rouleur had your cane and bundle on his 
shoulder. It was I who led the songs of farewell, to which all 
our pays replied in chorus. The solemnity of that ceremony, 
which is so honorable to those to whom it is decreed, and of which 
I was proud to see you the hero, gave me enthusiasm and cou- 
rage. I embraced you without weakness, and I returned to the 
city with the escort, singing all the way, and not thinking of the 
isolation to which I should be reduced, far from the friend who 
had instructed and protected me. I think I must have been 
somewhat excited by our frequent libations, to which I had not 
been accustomed, and fear I never shall be. When the fumes 
of the wine were dissipated, and I found myself without you at 
the mother’s, under the mantel-piece, while our brothers con- 
tinued their fete around the table, I fell into a profound sadness. 
I resisted my grief for a long while ; but I could not master it, 
and I burst into tears. The mother was near me, busy preparing 


98 


THE COMPANION 


supper for the companions. She was moved at seeing me weep ; 
and pressing my head between her hands, in the same way that 
she caresses her children : ‘ Poor little Nantais,’ said she to me, 
£ you have the best heart. When the others lose a friend, they 
do nothing but sing and drink until they have no more voice, and 
can’t steady themselves on their legs. You have a woman’s 
heart, and the wife you will one day have will be well loved. 
In the meanwhile, take courage, my poor child, you are not 
abandoned. All your pays love you, because you are a good- 
fellow and a good workman. Your father Savinien says he 
would wish to have a son just like you. And, as to me, I am 
your mother, do you understand ? not only as I am of all the 
companions, but like her who brought you into the world. You 
will confide to me all your troubles, you will tell me all your 
sorrows, and I will try to assist and to console you !’ 

“ Speaking thus, that good woman kissed me on the head, and 
I felt a tear from her beautiful black eyes fall upon my brow. I 
shall never forget that if I live as long as the Wandering Jew. 
I felt my heart melt with tenderness for her, and, I confess to 
you, that the rest of the day I hardly thought again of you. I 
had my eyes constantly upon the Savinienne. I followed every 
one of her steps. She allowed me to help her in her household 
cares, and honest Savinien said, on seeing me at work, ‘ How 
obliging the boy is ! what a good child ! what a heart he has !’ 
Savinien did not imagine that from that day I was his rival, in 
love with his wife. 

“ He never imagined it ; and the more in love I was, the more 
confidence he had. He who was fifty, doubtless could not think 
that a child like me would have other eyes for the Savinienne 
than those of a son. But he forgot that the Savinienne might 
have been his daughter, and that she could not have been my 
mother. That dear mother saw clearly the state of my heart. 
I never dared to tell her ; I felt indeed that it would have been 
culpable, since Savinien was so good to me. And then I knew 
how honest she was. There was not a single companion, even 
among the boldest, who would have hazarded any want of 
respect towards her, even in his cups. But I had no need of 
words ; my eyes told her my attachment in spite of me. Hardly 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


99 


had I finished my day’s work, when I ran to the mother’s, and 
always reached there first. I had a love and care for her chil- 
dren, like those of a woman who had nursed them. At that time 
she was weaning her boy. She was ill, and his cries prevented 
her from sleeping. She did not wish to trust him to the maid- 
servant, because Fanchon slept soundly, and would have taken 
but poor care of him, in spite of her good will. She permitted 
me to take the child into my bed at night. I could not close my 
eyes ; but I was happy to tend him, and to walk about the cham- 
ber with him in my arms, while I sang to him the song of the 
hen that lays silver eggs for pretty children. This lasted two 
months. The mother was cured, and the little one had become 
accustomed to sleep quietly with me. When she wished to take 
him back again, he was not willing to leave me, and he slept in 
my arms all the time I remained here. I believe there cannot 
be a more tender bond than that of a woman with the person who 
loves her child and is loved by it. The Savinienne and 1 were 
like brother and sister. When she spoke to me, when she looked 
at me, the sweetness of Paradise was in her voice and in her 
eyes, and I cared for nothing, though there was by our side some 
one who might have occasioned a great deal of anxiety to Savi- 
nien and to me. That was Romanet le Bon-soutien, now digni- 
tary. What a good heart ! What a brave companion is he also ! 
He loved the Savinienne as I love her, and I really believe he 
will love her all his life. At that time, Savinien’s affairs were 
quite embarrassed. Pie had credit, but no money ; and he was 
obliged every year to pay a part of what he had borrowed on his 
word when he purchased the establishment. And as he did not 
make much profit (he was too honest for that), he anticipated 
with fear the moment when he should be obliged to give up his 
inn to another. If I had had' anything, how happy I should have 
been to help him ! But then I owned nothing more than the 
clothes I had on my back ; and my earnings were hardly enough 
to discharge my debt to Savinien, who had fed and lodged me 
gratis in the beginning. Romanet le Bon-soutien was in a better 
position. He was rich. He had an inheritance worth several 
thousand crowns. He sold it, and placed the proceeds in Savi- 
nien’s hands, without being willing to accept obligations or re- 


100 


THE COMPANION 


ceive interest, telling him that he might repay him in ten years 
if he could not do better. I am willing to suppose that he acted 
thus from friendship to Savinien ; but, without disparaging his 
good heart, it is easy to guess, that his feeling towards the Savi- 
nienne had a great deal to do with the pleasure he took in per- 
forming this good action. The honest young man was only the 
more timid with her, and, like me, he would have considered it a 
crime to fail in the duty of friendship to her husband. There- 
fore we both loved her, and she treated us both like her best 
friends. But Romanet, restrained by modesty in consequence 
of the service he had rendered, and living in the city, did not 
see her so frequently as I did. In fine, from whatever causes, 
the mother had a marked preference for me. She venerated 
Bon-soutien as an angel, but she cherished me as her child ; and 
there were not on the earth four persons more united and more 
happy than Savinien, his wife, Bon-soutien, and myself. 

“ But the time at last came when I was obliged to depart. 
The repairs on the Prefecture were finished, and work would 
soon be wanting for the number of journeymen assembled at 
Blois. Some young companions arrived ; it was the duty of 
those of their grade who had been longest in the place to make 
room for them. 1 was of the number. It was determined to 
give us a farewell, and direct us towards Poitiers. 

“ Then I discovered the strength of my feelings. I was as if 
crazy, and the grief I experienced, showed more to the Savi- 
nienne than I should have been willing to tell her. She gave me 
strength to obey the devoir by speaking to me of her honor and 
my own ; and in that exhortation, words were interchanged 
which we could not take back after having uttered them. At 
last, I departed with a broken heart, and I have never been able 
to love or to look at any other woman than the Savinienne. I 
am still as pure at this day as I was when I left Blois,' and when 
the Savinienne kissed my forehead under the mantel-piece. ” 

Pierre, moved by the recital of this simple and virtuous pas- 
sion, promised his friend that he would help him in his love, and 
that he would not leave Blois without having discovered the Sa- 
vinienne’s intentions, and raised the veil which concealed the 
Corinthian’s destiny. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


101 


CHAPTER XII. 

It was on the next day, a Sunday of course, that all the com- 
panions and affiliates of the devoir of liberty of Blois employed 
their time in deliberating on the matter of the competition. The 
hall consecrated to their meetings having been given up to the 
masons for necessary repairs, they assembled on that day in the 
Savinienne’s barn. All the members took their seats without 
ceremony upon bundles of straw. The dignitary had a chair, 
and before him a writing table, around which were seated the 
secretary and the elders. Pierre would have wished to complete 
his business and depart during the morning. But, besides that 
the rouleur’s warning was only too true, and that he could not 
find a single good workman who was not interested in the com- 
petition, he looked upon it as a duty to reply to the call which 
summoned him. When the piece for competition had been pro- 
posed, and they were about to proceed to the election of those 
who were to work upon it, he requested leave to speak, in order 
that he might retire afterwards. It was granted him ; and in 
spite of the agitation occasioned by the principal business, they 
were disposed to listen to him attentively. Each one was cun- 
ous to know what a companion so generally esteemed could 
allege against so glorious and so holy an enterprise as the com- 
bat with the devorants. Pierre began to speak. He first 
demonstrated that victory was always doubtful ; that the most 
upright and the best composed jury might be deceived ; that in 
matters of art there were no incontestable decisions ; that the 
public itself was often deceived by a tendency to bad taste, and 
that the triumph of an artist was never acknowledged by his 
rivals ; that thus the honor which the society wished to attribute 
to the competition and the glory it flattered itself would be 
derived from it, wertf only illusion and deception. 

He spoke also of the expenses which would be incurred for 
this competition. A certain number of competitors were to be 


102 


THE COMPANION 


deprived of work. It was necessary to support them during 
the time, and afterwards to indemnify them from the com- 
mon fund. It was also necessary to support and pay, during 
the five or six months employed in the completion of the 
master-piece, the keepers intended as guards for the competitors. 
These were expenses which would certainly keep the society in 
debt for several years. Pierre proved his assertions by figures. 
But he was interrupted by murmurs. There were there some 
irritable self-loves which could not bear to have a doubt cast 
upon their scientific and artistic capacity. As happens in every 
assembly, whatever be its elements and its object, those hot and 
vain heads led all, and succeeded in persuading all that the only 
business was to admire them and procure triumphs for them. 
When Pierre Huguenin asked : — 

“ What good will it do the society to have half-a-dozen of its 
members spend six months upon a ruinous gew-gaw, upon a 
monument destined to perpetuate the remembrance of our folly 
and our vanity ?” 

They replied : — 

“ If the society chooses to incur the expense, what is it to 
you ? If you do not wish to bear your part, thank the society ;* 
you are free, you have finished your tour of France.” 

And Pierre had much difficulty in making them understand 
that, if he were rich, he would have preferred taking the whole 
expense upon himself rather than allow the society to ruin itself, 
to incur a debt which would cripple it for twenty years perhaps. 

“ The society will impose all privations upon itself if need 
be,” they replied. “ Honor is more precious to it than riches. 
Let us bring down the pride of the devorants ; prove to them 
that we alone understand the trade ; compel them to yield the 
place to us, and then you will see that no one will complain.” 

“ It is not you who will complain,” said Pierre Huguenin to 
this observation from one of the most excited aspirers to the 
competition ; “ you who will acquire all the honor of the com- 
bat if you succeed, and who, even in case of defeat, will be 

* To thank the society, is to retire from it so far as to have no more part 
in its expenses, its enterprises, or its profits. The person is still bound in 
heart, but is under no obligation towards it except in conscience. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


103 


indemnified and recompensed for your labor by the society. 
But all those young affiliates who, hereafter, shall come to ad- 
mire in your halls of study the master-piece of your competi- 
tion, will they be indemnified by the sight of that trophy, for the 
lessons which will be wanting and the advances which cannot 
be made to them ? As to myself, I approve the principle of 
emulation ; but on condition that the glory of some does not 
impoverish others, and that scholars do not pay to remain scho- 
lars, while proclaiming the glory of the masters of the art.” 

These good reasons began to take effect upon the most disin- 
terested. Pierre Huguenin endeavored to dissuade them from 
their ambitious design by reasons not more positive, but more 
broad. He yielded to the feelings and the ideas which had long 
fermented in his heart, while demonstrating the moral wrong 
which such struggles caused to the societies on both sides. 

“ Do we not commit a great injustice,” said he to them, 
“ when we say to men who are as industrious and needy as 
ourselves : this city cannot contain us all, and enable us to 
live according to our pride or our ambition ; let us try it by lot; 
or at least measure our strength ; let the most skilful prevail, 
and the conquered depart with naked feet upon the painful path 
of life, in order to seek a barren corner whither our pride dis- 
dains to pursue them ? Will you say that the world is large 
enough, and that there is work everywhere ? Yes, there is 
everywhere room and resources for men who help each other. 
There are not these — no, the universe is not spacious enough, 
for men who wish to isolate themselves or to disperse into inimi- 
cal and jealous groups. Do you not see the world of the rich ? 
Have you never asked yourselves by what right they are born 
happy, and for what crime you live and die in poverty ? why 
they enjoy in repose, while you labor in pain ? What does this 
mean ? The priests will tell you that God wills it so ; but are 
you very sure that God does really will it so ? You answer no, 
do you not 1 You are sure of the contrary ; otherwise you 
would be impious idolators, and you would believe in a God 
more wicked than the devil, an enemy of justice and of the 
human race. Well ! do you wish me to tell you how riches 
are established and how poverty is perpetuated ? By the skil- 


104 


THE COMPANION 


fulness of some and the simplicity of others. On this account 
the simple have acknowledged their defeat and their exclusion 
from all riches and all honors ; for the skilful have proved to them 
that it ought to be so. And now there have been such hosts of 
simple ones, and you and your fathers have been forced to work 
for the rich without complaint and without being wearied. You 
consider this very unjust. From morning to night I hear this 
said, and I say so myself. That which you consider unjust 
towards yourselves, would you then think it just to make others 
suffer ? 

“ Sometimes, in spite of fate, you are permitted to escape 
from your poverty : but on what conditions ? You must be very 
industrious, very persevering, and perhaps very selfish. You 
must raise yourself by the gain, the avarice, the severity of 
labor beyond your fellows ; for who are those among us that 
succeed in amassing any property and establishing themselves ? 
Those only who have an inheritance, or a superior genius. I 
know the respect which is due to intelligence ; but do you con- 
sider it very just, very generous, that a man should be crushed 
by poverty and die on a dunghill, because God has not granted 
to him so much mind or health as to you ? What is the spirit 
of our society ? what is its cause, its object ? The necessity of 
employing the intelligence and the courage of some to stimulate 
and correct the ignorance or the weakness of others ; and for this 
it is necessary to sustain and assist them with our gains, that is, 
with our labor, until they have profited by our lessons and ac- 
knowledge the necessity of working without sparing themselves. 
The thought which instituted the devoir of liberty, and permit me 
to tell you, the thought which instituted the different devoirs of 
the companionship, is therefore great, moral, and according to 
the designs of Solomon .* Well ! that which you do when you 
labor to excel a society is entirely opposed to that august 
thought, to those supreme designs. If the laborers of the Tem- 

* Solomon was then to the companions, and will still long be, to a great 
number, an ideal being, a kind of fetish to whom all perfections, all pow- 
ers, are attributed. His name is almost equivalent to that of the Eternal, 
and Pierre Huguenin was obliged to make use of it in order to give more 
authority to his religious invocation. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


105 


pie thought it necessary to divide themselves into different tribes 
under the direction of several chiefs, the reason is because it was 
their mission to traverse the world by different roads, in order to 
carry to several points at once the light and the advantages of 
industry. Be sure that the children of Jacques and those of 
Soubise are, as well as ourselves, the children of the great Solo- 
mon.” 

A murmur of disapprobation almost interrupted PAmi-du-trait. 
He hastened to resume, with address, for some allegory was 
necessary for minds less enlightened than his own — 

“ They are misguided children, rebellious children, if you 
will. In their long and painful pilgrimage, they have forgotten the 
wise laws and even the august name of their father. Jacques 
was perhaps an impostor who corrupted their judgment and made 
himself a prophet in order to steal the worship of the true mas- 
ter ; and this is why they feel so much animosity towards us ; 
this is why they provoke and maltreat us with so much fanati- 
cism, endeavoring to isolate themselves from us and to dispute 
with us the right to labor, the sacred inheritance of all compa- 
nions. Will you then imitate their example, and, because they 
are blind and inhuman, will you act like them ? Will you 
lift the gauntlet of combat ? Oh, my pays ! Oh, my brothers ! 
Recall a great lesson which Solomon has given us. Two 
mothers contended for a child ; he commanded that it should be 
cut in twain, and that each should carry away a half. The 
false mother accepted the division, the true mother cried out 
that it should be given whole to her rival. This apologue is the 
emblem of our destiny. Those of us who require the division 
of the earth and of work, are void of heart, and do not think that 
the portion divided by the sword of hatred will be but a corpse 
in their hands.” 

Pierre spoke to them still a long while. I know not if he 
bore in his bosom the revelation of a time and a society in which 
the principle of individual liberty could be reconciled with the 
rights of all. I know that his intelligent brain could be elevated 
to this conception, such as it has now entered into the hearts and 
minds of the elect, but it must be remarked that, at this epoch, 
the principle of Saint-Simonism (the first of the modern doctrines 
6 * 


106 


THE COMPANION 


which became in any degree popular under the reign of the 
Bourbons) had not yet been developed. The germs of a social 
and religious philosophy were hidden in secret councils or show- 
ed themselves only in the meditations of political economists. 
Probably Pierre Huguenin had never heard of them, but an 
upright and somewhat cultivated mind, an ardent soul, a poetic 
imagination, made of him a mysterious and singular being, quite 
similar to those inspired shepherds who are born, according to 
the old traditions, with the spirit of prophecy. One might have 
said, with the Savinienne, that he was filled with the spirit of the 
Lord ; for, in the candor of his enthusiasm, he touched upon the 
most elevated human questions, without himself knowing what 
were the veiled heights to which his dreams had carried him. 
This is why his discourses, of which we can here give only the 
rough and dry substance, had an evangelical character of which 
the effect was great upon simple minds, and still virgin imagina- 
tions. He advised them to attempt, instead of a doubtful combat, 
an honorable peace. The devorants, tired of quarrelling, began 
to soften. It would perhaps be easier than was thought, to 
induce them to recognise the right of the children of Solomon. 
Why, if the latter could listen to reason, and understand justice, 
should not the devorants do the same? Were they not men? 
and, at the risk of not being listened to, ought not the attempt to 
be made to bring them back to humane sentiments, rather than 
embitter their hatred by a challenge of self-love ? In fine would 
there not be still time to resume the competition, when it was 
absolutely demonstrated to be the only means of avoiding new 
conflicts ? But what should not be undertaken before abandon- 
ing the chances of peace and alliance ? Had they acted in this 
spirit? Far contrary, they had thought only of returning 
insult for insult, bravado for bravado. They had, in mere gaiety 
of heart, thrown themselves into a thousand dangers which could 
easily have been avoided in the beginning by more calmness 
and dignity. Had they not that very morning also provoked the 
Drilles carpenters, by singing songs of war and curses before 
their workshops ? Pierre had been a witness of this fact. He 
censured it with earnestness, with sorrow. “ You pride your- 
selves on being the lords, the patricians of the tour of 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


107 


France,” said he to them; “have therefore, at least, the noble 
manners which are proper when one esteems himself superior to 
the rest of men.” 

When he ceased speaking, there was a long silence. The 
things which he had said were so new and so strange, that his 
hearers had thought they were dreaming in another life, and they 
required some time to recognise themselves in the shadows of 
this workl. 

But, by degrees, the restrained passions recovered their sway. 
Their reign was not yet ended ; and the workmen had retained, 
of the great principle of fraternal equality proclaimed by the 
French revolution, only a motto instead of a faith, a few glorious' 
and profound words, already as mysterious to them as the rites 
of the companionship. Murmurs soon succeeded to the mute 
acquiescence of a few, to the deep stupor of the greater number ; 
and those whose hearts had involuntarily thrilled, blushed quite 
as soon at having felt that emotion, or having allowed it to ap- 
pear. At last one of the most excited spoke. “ That is a fine 
discourse,” said he, “ and a better sermon than a curate could 
have preached from his pulpit. If all the merit of a companion 
is to know books and to speak like them, honor to you, pays Vil- 
lepreux l’Ami-du-trait. You know more than all of us ; and if 
you had to do with women, perhaps you would make them weep. 
But we are men, children of Solomon ; and if the glory of a com- 
panion of the devoir of liberty is to support his society, to devote 
himself body and soul for it, to repel insults, to make a rampart 
for it of his breast, shame to you, pays Villlepreux ! for you have 
spoken badly, and you would deserve to be reprimanded. How 
then ! We have listened to the councils of cowardly prudence 
and feel no indignation ! We have been told that we ought to 
abjure our honor, forget the murder of our brothers, present our 
cheek to blows, erase our name from the tour of France, appa- 
rently, and we have listened to it all with patience ! You see 
well, pays Villepreux, that we are gentle and moderate as men 
can be. You g§e that we have the respect of the devoir, and 
the fraternity of the companionship strong in our hearts, since 
we have not silenced you as a madman, or thrown you out 
hence as a false brother. You have so fine a reputation, and 


108 


THE COMPANION 


have been invested with such eminent dignities by the society, 
that we persist in believing your intentions good and your heart 
upright. But your mind has been misled by books, and this 
should be a warning to all who have heard you. Who knows 
too much of them, does not know enough ; and whoever learns 
many useless things, runs the risk of forgetting the most neces- 
sary, the most sacred.” 

Other orators, more vehement still, testified even greater indig- 
nation, and soon a violent discussion arose against Pierre 
Huguenin. He replied calmly ; he bore their accusations, their 
reproaches and threats, with theresignat ion of a martyr and the 
firmness of a stoic. He said many excellent things, varying 
his arguments, and adapting his figures of speech to the powers 
of those who addressed him. But he saw with sorrow that the 
small number of his adherents diminished more and more, and he 
expected public insults : for the meeting was in a state of entire 
confusion, and truth had no longer any power over those harden- 
ed or excited minds. At last the dignitary, after many useless 
efforts, obtained silence, and undertook to defend Pierre Hugue- 
nin’s intentions. 

“ I know him too well to doubt him,” said he ; “ and if a sus- 
picion against his honor could enter my mind, I believe that in an 
instant afterwards I should ask his pardon for it on my knees. 
There will therefore be no reprimands here except for those who 
should permit themselves to insult him. Upon all points he has 
spoken according to his conscience, and upon many my senti- 
ments agree with his. Still I believe that his ideas are not 
applicable at this moment ; this is why I propose to go forward ; 
but I asky once for all, that due respect be paid to liberty of 
opinions, and that they be opposed without bitterness and without 
brutality. Be consoled, pays Villepreux, for the rather violent 
contradiction you have encountered here. If you have been 
mistaken in some things, you have nevertheless said certain 
truths which will remain engraved on more than one friendly 
heart, and on mine ( specially. Be sure that^me will remain, 
even in the minds of the most excited. Perhaps the ideas of 
peace and general union which you have boldly proclaimed will 
be more freely listened to in happier days. I myself think tha* 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


109 


you have spoken well, and that you have not been corrupted by 
the knowledge of books. You are free to retire, if the discus- 
sion of our interests, as we understand them at the moment, 
wounds your faith ; but we request you not to leave the city be- 
fore the crisis in which we now are has changed its aspect. If 
it were necessary to enter into fresh combats, and if the society 
should order you to march, we know that you would behave like 
a brave soldier of the army of Solomon. ” 

Pierre bowed in sign of respect and submission. He retired, 
and the Corinthian followed him. “ Brother,” said this noble 
young man to him, “ do not be humiliated, do not be sad, I be- 
seech you ; what the dignitary has just said is very true : Your 
words have found their echo in hearts which sympathize with 
■yours.” 

“ I am not humiliated,” replied PAmi-du-trait, “ and your 
sympathy alone would be enough to recompense me for the 
anger of the others. But I am anxious, I confess, and for an en- 
tirely personal matter. The dignitary has in some sort ordered 
me to remain here. I understand the delicacy of his intentions ; 
he sees that many will accuse me of a want of courage at the 
hour of conflict, and he gives me an opportunity to reinstate my- 
self in their eyes ; but 1 am not anxious for that barbarous 
honor, and shall accept it with sorrow. A not less important 
reason makes me regret having renewed my connexion with the 
society. I gave my word of honor to my father to return in 
three days, and he has given his to resume work to-morrow. He 
cannot do it without me. He is ill, and perhaps more seriously 
so since my departure. He is of an excitable temperament, of a 
scrupulous loyalty. At this hour he expects me on the road, 
and I think I see him tormented by uncertainty, by impatience, 
by fear. Poor father ! he had so much faith in the promise I 
made to him ! And I must fail to fulfil it !” 

“ Pierre,” replied the Corinthian, “ I feel that you are between 
two duties : the holy duty of liherty and filial duty, which is 
not. less sacred. You must divide your burden. I wish to take 
half of it. You will remain here to obey the laws of the socie- 
ty, and I will go to your father. I will invent some pretext to 
excuse you, and I will go to work in your place. An hour’s 


110 


THE COMPANION 


attention will be enough for me to receive your instructions. I 
know how you demonstrate, and you know how I listen. Come 
into the garden ; before night I will be on the road. I will sleep 
at Jambe-de-bois’, and before daylight will take the diligence 
which passes there. To-morrow evening I will be at your 
father’s, the next day morning in the chapel of your old chateau. 
Thus everything will be arranged, and your mind will be 
easy.” 

“ Dear Amaury,” replied Pierre Huguenin, “ I expected no- 
thing less from your friendship and from a heart like yours ; but 
I cannot accept your devotedness. It is probable that the com- 
petition will take place, and I neither ought nor wish to make 
you lose the opportunity of becoming known and acquiring glory. 
It is not because you are my pupil, but I am certain that you are 
the most able of those who will be presented for the competition. 
If you do not carry off the prize of the golden compass, at least 
you will give such proofs of talent that you will be spoken of on 
the tour of France. Such opportunities offer but seldom, and 
they often decide the whole future of a workman. Please God 
I will not make you lose that which may present itself to-mor- 
row !” 

“ And I, I wish to lose it,” replied the Corinthian, “ and I will 
lose it at any event. You must think me very contracted if you 
believe that my ideas and my feelings have not advanced since 
this morning. I have opened my eyes, brother ; and I am no 
longer the blind and rude man who yesterday listened to. you 
with stupor upon the road to Blois. The words which you uttered 
before the assembly have fallen into my heart like good seed into 
a fertile furrow. It seemed to me that a cloud rose from the 
earth between us, and that I had hitherto loved you through a 
veil. Yes, my friend, you had seemed to me nothing more than 
a well taught, honest, and good companion. At present I see 
well that you are more than that, more than a workman, more 
than a man, perhaps. What am I going t^say ? I represented 
to myself the Christ, that son of a carpenter; poor, obscure, wan- 
dering upon the earth, and talking to wretched workmen like 
ourselves, without money, almost without bread, without educa- 
tion (it is thus he has been represented to us). I remembered 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


Ill 


what is related of his beauty, of his youth, of his gentleness, of 
the precepts of wisdom and charity which he explained, as you 
have done to-day, in parables. I do not wish to wound your 
modesty, Pierre, by comparing you to him whom some call God ; 
but 1 said to myself : If the Christ should again come among us, 
and should pass before this house, what would he do ? He would 
see the Savinienne on the threshold, with her charming manner 
and her two beautiful children, and he would bless them. And 
then the Savinienne would beseech him to enter ; she would 
wash his dusty and burning feet, and she would shelter her little 
ones in the folds of the Saviour’s robe while she went to seek the 
purest water to assuage his thirst. And during this time, the 
carpenter’s son would question the children, and he would learn 
from them that there are there, in the barn, some men who are 
talking and concerting. Then the divine man would wish to know 
the hearts of his brothers, of his sons, the poor workmen. He 
would enter the barn, and would not disdain to seat himself, like 
us, upon a bundle of straw, he who was born upon the straw of 
a stable ; then he would listen. And while I was dreaming thus, 
I depicted to myself the beautiful face of Jesus, attentive and 
smiling, and his beautiful eyes fixed upon you with an expres- 
sion of gentleness and emotion. — And when you had finished 
speaking (for this, Pierre, was not a simple supposition of my 
mind ; it was like a vision before my eyes), when you had 
finished speaking, I saw him approach, bend over you, and say 
to you, laying his hands on you, what he said to the poor men of the 
people whom he made his disciples : 1 Come with me, leave your 
nets and follow me ; I wish to make you a fisher of men.’ And 
it seemed to me that a great light shone from the brow of the 
Christ, and enveloped you in its rays. Then I said to myself : 
Pierre is an apostle ; why did I not know it ? He prophesies ; 
why have I not understood him ? And I also, I rose with a zeal 
which consumed me. I was about to cry out : O Christ ! take 
me with my brother ; I am not worthy to unloose the latchets of 
thy shoes, but I will listen to thee, and will gather the crumbs 
which fall from thy table. Then the companions became ex- 
cited. They contradicted you, they blamed you. My vision 
was effaced, but there remained as it were a trembling in my 


112 


THE COMPANION 


whole body ; I had great difficulty in restraining myself; I was 
ready to weep, as at the time when the Savinienne, that pious 
woman who loves God so much, without loving the priests, used 
to read to me, with her sweet voice, the Holy Scriptures, in an 
old Bible that has been in her family two or three hundred years. 
Therefore I shall never be impious, and, even if others laugh at 
me, I shall never laugh at Jesus, the carpenter’s son. Whether 
he be God or not, whether he was entirely dead or rose again, 
I cannot examine that, and do not trouble myself about it. There 
are even some who say that he never existed. I, I say that it is 
impossible he should not have existed ; and I am more sure of it 
since I have understood what you think and what you wish to 
make others understand. Why should you be the first workman 
who has had such ideas ? I cannot conceive now how I myself 
have not had them sooner ; and I say to myself that you would 
not have had them, if men or gods like Jesus had not spread them 
abroad in the world. This is why I no longer wish to listen to 
any other than you ; I do not wish to act, to think, to work, not 
even to love, unless you say to me : That is good, that is just. 
And I will never leave you again — except that I will leave you 
this evening, but that is to go and wait for you at your father’s. 
You see that I no longer think of competition, of glory, of master- 
pieces — we have a very different thing to do, that is to work 
without injuring others, without humiliating them, without quar- 
relling with them for what belongs to them as well as to us.” 

The Savinienne, anxious at seeing Pierre and Amaury leave 
the meeting and enter the garden in earnest conversation, had 
followed them. By degrees, she had approached ; and resting 
upon the back of their bench, she listened to them. Pierre saw 
her clearly, but he was happy to have her hear the Corinthian’s 
elevated talk, and he was careful not to betray her presence. 
When the Corinthian ceased, the Savinienne said to him, with a 
sigh, “ I wish Savinien was still here to listen to you ; but I hope 
that in heaven he sees and blesses you. Corinthian, you have a 
heart and a mind, such as I have never known — if not in my 
poor Savinien ; but he had a great many things to learn, and, as 
is said, truth comes from the mouth of children.” 

Pierre smiled with joy, on seeing that the Savinienne appreci 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


113 


ated the Corinthian. He saw the blushes and the transport of 
his friend, when the mother extended her hand to him, saying, 
“ It is for life and death between us, as regards esteem, my son 
Amaury.” 

“ And friendship ?” cried the young man, emboldened and 
agitated at the same time. 

“ Friendship means one thing between men, and another 
between men and women,” replied she naively. “ You have 
mine, as if we were two men or two women.” 

Amaury did not answer. The black dress of the widow 
imposed silence on him. She withdrew, and Pierre resumed, 
looking at his friend, who followed her with his eyes. “ And 
now, brother, do you still wish to go ? Are you not retained 
here by something more dear and more important than glory ?” 

“Were I on the eve of becoming her husband,” replied the 
Corinthian, “ I would still go to save your honor. But we are 
not in that position. I cannot remain here. I do not know 
where I can find strength not to say what I think ; and that 
which I think, a woman in mourning ought not to hear. I should 
fail in my duty to myself, in my duty to the memory of 
Savinien ; I should lose the Savinienne’s esteem, and all this in 
spite of myself. Make me go, Pierre ; you will do a service to 
me, even more than to yourself.” 

Pierre felt that his friend was right. “Well, as for myself, I 
accept,” said he, “ but I doubt if the society will consent. In 
the excess of your modesty, you forget that if the competition 
takes place, they will have more need of you than of any other, 
and will not permit you to depart thus. Whatever may be the 
result of our differences with the devoir , your presence here is 
considered as necessary, since you were summoned.” 

“ Pierre, Pierre !” cried the Corinthian with sadness, “ have 
you already forgotten then, what you said to me yesterday upon 
the road ? Are you not disgusted with that agreement, which 
subjects us to the caprices and prejudices of ignorant and violent 
men ? We owe to them assistance, when they are in misfortune 
or danger ; for they are our brothers. But when they are intox- 
icated with pride or vengeance, do we owe to them a blind 
submission ? No ! for me, that dream is effaced, and just now, 


114 


THE COMPANION 


when I saw them turn against you, I considered them so culpable 
that the bonds of sworn affection were broken in my heart in 
spite of me. Come, let us go back to the meeting. I will ask 
them to let me go, tell them they must not depend on me for the 
competition ; and, if they refuse me, I will thank the society, 
resume my liberty” — 

“ You have no right to do so before God. Misled or culpable, 
they are our brothers. Their situation is painful and perilous. 
We are not in numbers here, and our enemies are the stronger, 
the more arrogant. If they persist in wishing to drive us from 
Blois by violence, it is certainly better to come to the trial of 
competition than to that of strength. Let us, therefore, be patient. 
I shall know how to be resigned. If, in one way or the other, 
my honor must be compromised, I will sacrifice my own inte- 
rests to those of others ; and, if my father condemns me, my 
conscience will absolve me.” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


115 


CHAPTER XIII. 

When the business of the meeting was completed, the gavots 
took their seats at the table. The competition was decided upon, 
and the Corinthian was among the number of competitors elected. 
This news caused him an emotion in which joy had a larger 
share than regret, it must be confessed. Although sincere in his 
devotedness to Pierre Huguenin, and in his virtuous resolutions 
with regard to the Savinienne, his young heart thrilled, in spite of 
him, at the idea of passing several months near her whom he 
loved, and of being acquitted, by the will of destiny, of what 
would have been wrong under other circumstances. It must 
also be said that the Corinthian had already more than once felt 
the excitement of ambition. He had too much talent not to be 
somewhat sensible to glory ; and if, in a movement of generous 
enthusiasm, he returned to the evangelical ideas which the pious 
Savinienne had instilled, very soon afterwards the seductions of 
art and of fame resumed their natural dominion over that artist 
and child-like soul, candid, ardent, and changeable as the light 
clouds of a beautiful morning sky. 

He endeavored to receive the news of his election with a dis- 
dainful resignation. But, in spite of himself, the contagious 
gaiety of his companions restored, by degrees, the roses of his 
complexion, and the aspect of the Savinienne filled his heart with 
a hope full of agitations and conflicts. His voice did not mingle 
with the cheerful jests of the table ; but there was in his gravity 
an expression of serious and profound joy, which did not escape 
Pierre. From time to time the eyes of the amiable Corinthian 
seemed to ask for mercy of his austere friend ; then they were 
involuntarily turned towards the Savinienne, and a cloud of 
passionate delight immediately obscured them. “ Take care of 
yourself, my child !” said Pierre to him, while the noise of the 


116 


THE COMPANION 


guests covered their voices. “Do not forget that just now you 
wished to depart in order to fly from the danger. Now that you 
must brave it, do not be rash.” 

“ Do you not see that my hand trembles as it holds my glass ?” 
replied the Corinthian. “I am more to be pitied than blamed. I 
feel that fate is more powerful than I, and I pray God that he 
may give me some of your strength to sustain me.” 

At this moment several of the young men of the society 
returned from a walk they had taken about the city, since the 
meeting. They related that they had seen a great feast of the 
drille carpenters in a wineshop. On passing before the door 
they had cast a glance into their hall, and had remarked soldiers 
at table with them. The war-songs of the devorants had struck 
their ears : 


“ Gavot abominable, 

Mille fois detestable, 

Pour toi plus de pitie,” &c.* 

Then one of those young gavots, transported with indignation, 
had advanced to the threshold of the wineshop, and written over 
the door, with his white chalk : “ Cowards ! cowards !” 

This action of an insane bravery had the luck not to be re- 
marked by any of the persons in the hall. The guests were 
apparently too much absorbed by the pleasures of the table, and 
those who served them too busy to observe what passed before 
their eyes. The other gavots did not wait for this rash inscription 
to attract notice ; they did not even take time to rub it out. 
Seeing that Marseillais le Resolu (this was the name of their 
young companion) was about to rush into the den of lions, 
like a martyr of the earlier ages, they saved him from 
certain death by throwing themselves upon him, and dragging 
him away almost by force. They related what he had done, — 
giving praise to his courage, but blaming his imprudence. The 
dignitary united with them in reproaching him for not having 

* Abominable Gavot, 

Thousand-fold detestable. 

For thee no more pity, &c. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


11 '"' 

repressed a movement of anger which might occasion new dis. 
asters to the society. “May Heaven grant/’ said he, “that 
blood will not be needed to efface what you have written !” 

Towards the close of supper they talked of the piece proposed 
for competition. It was to be the model of a pulpit, which 
should unite all the qualities of science and all the beauties of 
art. Pierre, submitting to the decision which had been adopted, 
gave his advice without pride and without affectation. All dis- 
sension was forgotten between him and his companions. The 
ambitious ones with whom he had clashed, having nothing more 
to fear from his opposition, did not blush to listen to him ; for he 
discoursed upon his art with an incontestable superiority. Al- 
ready the gavots indulged in flattering dreams ; they thought 
themselves sure of victory, and the beautiful master-piece rose 
as a gigantic monument in their imaginations excited by the 
fumes of glory, when violent blows shook the doors of the inn. 
“ Who can it be that announces himself so brutally ?” said the 
dignitary, rising. “ Certainly not one of our brothers.” 

“ Let us open, nevertheless,” replied the companions. “We 
shall see if any one will enter our house without saluting us.” 

“ Do not open,” cried the maid-servant, who had looked from 
the upper windows. “ They are not friends. They are armed. 
They come with bad intentions.” 

“ It is the carpenters of father Soubise,” said a companion who 
had looked through the keyhole ; “ let us open ! It is a deputa- 
tion who wish to parley.” 

“ No, no !” said little Manette, quite frightened ; “ there are 
great ugly men with moustaches. They are robbers.” And 
she ran to take refuge in the arms of her mother, who became 
pale, and instinctively pressed behind the Corinthian’s chair. 

“ Well ! let us open, nevertheless,” cried the companions ; “if 
they are enemies, they will find somebody to talk to.” 

« One moment !” said the dignitary. “ Let us run and get our 
canes to receive them. We do not know what may happen.” 

The blows ceased to shake the door ; but threatening voices 
rose without. They sang a verse of the savage song of the six- 
teenth century : 


118 


THE COMPANION 


“ Tous ces Gavots infames 
Iront dans les enfers 
Bruler dedans les flammes 
Comme des Lucifers.”* 

The companions rose tumultuously. Some wished to defend 
the door, which those without again attempted to burst, while others 
collected the weapons. But before they had time, a window was 
broken, the door flew into pieces, and the carpenters rushed into 
the hall with horrid shouts. Then succeeded a scene of fury 
and confusion which it is impossible to describe. Each armed 
himself with what was nearest his hand. To the terrible iron- 
shod canes of the devorants, and the sabres of the soldiers of the 
garrison, several of whom had allowed themselves to be drawn 
into the ranks of the drilles after a debauch, the gavots opposed 
the fragments of bottles, with which they struck the assailants in 
the face, the table under which they overthrew them, the spits 
which they used as lances, and with which one of the most 
vigorous pinned his adversary to the wall. Their defence was 
legitimate : it was obstinate and deadly. Pierre Huguenin had 
at first thrown himself between the combatants, hoping to make 
his voice heard, and prevent the carnage. But he was violently 
repulsed, and was soon obliged to think of defending his own 
life and that of his brothers. The Savinienne rushed to the 
stairs leading to her chamber, and scaled them with the strength 
and rapidity of a panther, carrying her two children in her arms. 
She pushed them into the loft, energetically showing them a back 
passage by which they could fly towards the granary, and place 
themselves in safety. Then she returned, and, full of indigna- 
tion, of courage and despair, she re-descended the stair-case 
and threw herself into the melee, thinking that the sight of a 
woman would disarm the fury of the assailants. But they no 
longer saw anything, and struck at random. She received a 
blow which, doubtless, was not intended for her, and fell, bathed 
in blood, into the arms of the Corinthian. Until then this young 

* All those infamous Gavots 
Will go into the hells 
To burn within the flames 
Like so many Lucifers. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


119 


man, struck with amazement, had fought feebly. It was the 
first time he had ever taken part in these horrible dramas, and 
he experienced such a disgust that he seemed rather to seek to 
be killed than to defend himself. When he saw the Savinienne 
wounded, he became furious ; and, like Tasso’s young Rinaldo, 
he showed that, if he had the beauty of a woman, he had the 
strength and intrepidity of a hero. The unfortunate who had 
shed some drops of the mother’s precious blood, payed for it with 
all his own. He fell with his face beaten in, and his head 
crushed, never to rise again. 

This terrible expiatory deed turned against the Corinthian all 
the efforts of the devorants. Until then, it seemed that they 
pitied or despised his youth, and wished to spare him ; but when 
they saw him stand, with flaming eyes and bloody arms, between 
the fainting mother and the dead body extended at his feet, there 
was a general shout, and twenty arms were raised to annihilate 
him. Pierre had only time to spring before him and make for 
him a rampart of his body. He received several wounds, and 
both would certainly have perished overwhelmed by numbers, 
had not the guard, attracted by the noise, entered the house, and 
with great difficulty separated the combatants. Pierre, notwith- 
standing the blood he was losing, retained all his strength and 
presence of mind. He carried the Savinienne to her chamber ; 
and, having laid her on her bed, he compelled the Corinthian, 
who had followed him, to take refuge in the loft, in order to 
avoid being arrested. He hid him in the straw, brought the 
children, frozen with fear, to their mother’s side, and again de- 
scended to the hall in time to assist some of the companions of 
his devoir to fly. Those most furious in the combat had been 
seized ; they were carried to prison. Others had dispersed in 
time, leaving their enemies in conflict with the guard. Pierre 
had at first the intention of giving himself up to the authorities, 
in order to render public testimony of his innocence and that of 
his friends. But when he saw the house full of soldiers, the dead 
and the wounded, he thought of the deserted state in which the 
Savinienne was at this deplorable crisis, and kept aloof until 
the guard had retired, bearing the dead and cara*ying away the 
prisoners of both parties, the first to the hospital, the last to 


120 


THE COMPANION 


prison. Then he ordered the maid-servant to wash away as 
quickly as possible, the blood with which the house was inun- 
dated, and he ran to find a physician for the Savinienne ; but his 
exertions were in vain. There had been so many wounded to 
succor and transport, that all persons acquainted with medicine, 
who could be found, were busied. He returned quite alarmed ; 
but he found the Savinienne erect like the strong woman of the 
Bible. She had had herself washed and bound up her wound, 
which fortunately was not serious, and which left only a slight scar 
upon her broad and pure brow. She had comforted her children 
and put them to bed, and she was helping her servant to restore 
order to the house, that important and sacred end towards which 
tend, without relaxation and without distraction, all the cares 
and all the strength of a woman of the people. Her heart was, 
nevertheless, tormented by cruel anxieties ; she did not know 
what had become of the Corinthian, or which of her friends had 
perished. She thought of the pitiless chastisements which the 
law would inflict, perhaps upon the innocent as well as upon the 
guilty ; and, suffering from this anguish, pale as death, her 
heart swollen, her hand trembling, she was working, in the 
depth of the night, to re-collect the scattered ruins of her violated 
household gods, of her devastated hearth, without shedding a tear, 
without uttering a complaint. 

When she saw Pierre Huguenin return, she had not courage 
enough to question him ; but she smiled upon him with a sub- 
lime expression of joy, which seemed to accept the greatest 
misfortunes in exchange for the safety of a friend like him. He 
took her by the hand and hastened with her to the loft where he 
had hidden and locked in the Corinthian. During this forced 
seclusion, the desolate young man, in prey to a thousand anxie- 
ties, had at first attempted, at every risk, to re-enter the house, 
in order to learn the fate of his companions, and especially of 
the mother. But emotion and fatigue had deprived him of the 
strength necessary to force the doors which Pierre, fearing his 
imprudence, had barricaded against him. He was so exhausted 
that he almost fainted on seeing his mistress and his friend out 
of danger. They examined and bound up his wounds, which 
were quite serious. They made for him, with mattresses and 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


121 


coverings, an impromptu bed, in a chamber which they also 
improvised for him, by piling up bundles of straw in the barn- 
loft. It was necessary to keep him concealed ; for he was one 
of those most compromised in the matter, and neither Pierre nor 
the Savinienne thought it best to trust to the integrity of the law 
in distinguishing the aggrieved from the aggressors. 

When Pierre had thought of everything and exhausted the 
remains of his strength, the Savinienne still had to take care of 
him. He also was wounded and weakened, and especially 
broken in the depths of his soul. What must not suffer, in 
fact, that organization always borne towards the ideal, and 
incessantly thrown back towards the most brutal reality ! When 
he was alone, he felt desperate ; and, remembering the blows 
he had been compelled to inflict, seeing rise before him all the 
spectres of sleeplessness and fever, he wished for death, and 
wrung his hands in the excess of a horrible sorrow. Sleep at 
last came to his relief, and he remained plunged in an almost 
lethargic exhaustion from break of day until night. 

The Savinienne rested hardly two or three hours. She 
divided her cares, all the remainder of the day, between her 
daughter, whom fear had also rendered ill, the Corinthian, and 
PAmi-du-trait. 

The dignitary and those of the companions who had escaped 
in time from the scene of combat, came to see and comfort her. 
Several of the wounded were out of danger ; they concealed 
from her, as much as possible, the agony and death of some 
others. But they still feared the result of judicial search. 
They had already sent away a companion who, like Amaury, 
had killed one of the enemies, and they advised Pierre to fly also 
with the Corinthian. As soon as the latter could walk, that is, 
on the next night, Pierre conducted him to the cabin of the Vau- 
dois, to remain until he could take the diligence and go to Ville- 
preux. The good carpenter hid him in his garret, and bestowed 
upon him all the cares of friendship. He had become a physi- 
cian himself, as he asserted, in consequence of having had so 
much to do with physicians. He went to work to apply his 
medicines, and Pierre, tranquillized respecting his friend, re- 
turned to Blois, determined not to abandon his captive brothers, 

7 


122 


THE COMPANION 


so long as his efforts and his testimony could be of service for 
their justification and deliverance. 

He was returning, by the early morning light, along the ver- 
dant banks of the Loire, in prey to a great sadness, to a deep dis- 
gust. This fatal necessity of maintaining a bitter partisan war- 
fare against the men of the people, against those children of 
poverty and labor whom he piously considered as his brothers, 
and whom he could have wished, at the cost of his life, to recon- 
cile and unite in one single family, was for him a remorse before 
God, a punishment, a shame in his own eyes. And yet, what 
could he do ? Had he to reproach himself with having neglected 
anything to preserve peace ? Had he not exposed himself to the 
blame of his own companions, in wishing to prove to them that the 
devorants were men like themselves ? And now those devorants 
had had a fresh attack of fury, and the gavots, persecuted for 
their faith, were cast, for a long time doubtless, into a fanaticism 
which had become necessary for the preservation of their inde- 
pendence, into a hatred almost legitimate after such outrages ! 

Pierre was not sufficiently advanced (though he was perhaps 
more so than the strongest minds of that epoch) to make a clear 
distinction between principle and fact. This courageous accept- 
ance of truth, this persevering faith in principles, which enables 
us to live in the thought of a better future, is still a very new 
notion to us, and one the habit of which is with difficulty intro- 
duced into our uneasy and troubled minds. We have been so 
long educated in the custom of judging what should be from what 
is, and what can be from what has been done, that we every mo- 
ment become discouraged on seeing the present so frequently 
disappoint our hopes. The reason is that we do not yet suffi- 
ciently understand the laws of life in humanity. We should 
study society as we observe man, in its physiological and social 
development. Thus the cries, the tears, the absence of reason, 
the immoderate instincts, the dislike of restraint and of rule, all 
that characterizes the childhood and adolescence of the man, are 
they not so many powerful, but inevitable crises, necessary to 
the blossoming and maturity of that germ which grows in suffer- 
ing, as does everything that is born in the bosom of the universe ? 
Why should we not apply this idea to humanity ? Why should 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


123 


the present make us renounce our ideal ? Why, since we are 
present at the manifestation of the idea in the world, should we 
not accept its failures, as scientific men observe without terror 
those of light in the imperishable stars. But, children as we are, 
and ignorant as we are, we often believe that the child is about 
to die because he becomes a man, that the suns will be extin- 
guished because their centres are covered with clouds. 

If Pierre Huguenin could have better understood the past and 
the future of the people, he would not have been so much af- 
frighted by the present into which he was cast. He would 
have said to himself that the principle of fraternity and equality, 
always at work in the souls of the oppressed, was at that moment 
undergoing a salutary crisis ; and that the companionship, which 
is one of the forms attempted by the fraternal instinct, then owed 
its preservation to those struggles, to those combats, to that blood- 
shed, to that insane pride. At a time when the mind of the en- 
lightened classes had not yet thought of the most important of 
truths, of the most necessary of initiations, it was Providence 
which preserved in the people that spirit of mystical association 
and of republican enthusiasm, through all the varieties of family, 
the jealousies of trade, the prejudices of sect, and the brutal he- 
roism of partisanship. 

The proletary philosopher struggled in vain to solve that ob- 
scure problem of the notion of good and evil ; a fictitious dis- 
tinction in the order of abstract things, in the presence of the 
eternal idea ; true only in the order of created things, in the 
temporary manifestation. He therefore allowed himself to be 
depressed by transitory reverses ; and, in his need of truth and 
justice, he was even so impious as to blush for his brothers. 
He was almost ready to hate them, to abandon them, to carry 
elsewhere his faith, his love, his zeal. But to whom could he 
carry them henceforward ? Unfortunate, said he to himself, 
who would receive you, branded as you are by poverty, bound 
by the slavery of labor ? Those enlightened, polished classes, 
towards whom a secret attraction and dangerous dreams so often 
draw you, could you even understand their language, and could 
they accommodate themselves to the rudeness of yours? Doubt- 
less, among the youth who are taught in schools, among those 


124 


THE COMPANION 


powerful and proud industrialists who struggle against the no- 
bility and clergy, among those brave soldiers who, they say, 
conspire on every side against tyranny, there are generous wills, 
pure principles, democratic feelings ; and while we, blind unfor- 
tunates, exhaust our energy in criminal strife against our own 
race, those enlightened agitators work for us, conspire for us, as- 
cend the scaffold for us ! Yes, it is for us, it is for the people, 
that the Bories, the Bertons die, with so many others whose blood 
has flowed without the people’s understanding it, without the 
people’s being moved ! Oh, yes ! these are heroes, martyrs ; 
and we, the ungrateful and stupid people, we did not tear those 
victims from the hands of the executioner, we did not break open 
the doors of their prisons, we did not overthrow their scaffolds ! 
But where were we then, and what do we now that we do not 
think of avenging them ? 

“ Excuse me for disturbing your reverie,” said an unknown 
voice at this moment in Pierre Huguenin’s ear. “ But I have 
sought for you a long while, and I must break the ice at a single 
blow, for time is precious ; I hope we shall soon understand each 
other.” 

Pierre, surprised at this strange preamble, looked at the per- 
son who thus addressed him, from head to foot. He was quite a 
young man, well dressed, and with a very pleasant face. There 
was in his manner a mixture of good-nature and rudeness which 
pleased at first sight. He had, or he affected something of a 
military bearing under his citizen’s dress ; his words were quick, 
brief, decided, and his half-lisp indicated a Parisian. 

“ Sir,” replied Pierre, after having carefully examined him, 
“ I believe you take me for another ; for I have not the honor to 
know you in any way.” 

“ Well ! as for me, I know you,” replied the stranger, “and I 
know you so well that I read at this moment in your thought, as 
I see the bottom of this limpid water which flows at our feet. 
You are thoughtful, engrossed, so much so that I have followed 
you a quarter of an hour without your noticing me. You are a 
victim to profound melancholy, for your face bears the marks of 
it in spite of you. Do you wish me to tell you what you are 
thinking of ?” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


125 


s< You will do me pleasure,” said Pierre, smiling, for he began 
to think the young man crazy. 

“ Pierre Huguenin,” returned the stranger, with an assurance 
which made our hero start, “ you are thinking of the uselessness 
of your efforts, of the hardness of the hearts on which you wish 
to act, of the strength of the obstacles which paralyse your 
energy, your zeal, and your great intentions.” 

Pierre was so struck at seeing before him a man who seemed 
to rise out of the earth, and reflect like a mirror his most secret 
thoughts, that he almost believed in a supernatural apparition, 
and he had not the power to reply by a single word, so much did 
he feel troubled, almost frightened, by what he heard. 

“ My poor Pierre,” continued the stranger, “ you have reason 
to be tired and disgusted with the trade you follow, of talking to 
the deaf, and of displaying the torch of truth before the blind. 
You will never accomplish anything with those stupid souls. 
You will not reform those ferocious customs. You are a superior 
man, and yet you cannot perform such a miracle. There is no- 
thing to hope from your companions.” 

“ What do you know of that — you, who speak with so much 
assurance of what you presume, and do not know ? Do you 
know the workingmen that you decide thus against them ? Are 
you one of us ? Do you wear the same livery that we do ?” 

“ I wear one more beautiful,” returned the stranger ; “ that 
of a servant of humanity.” 

“ You must be a very busy servant,” said Pierre, shaking his 
head with an air of disdain ; for his new acquaintance began to 
inspire him rather with distrust than sympathy. 

The stranger, pursuing his course of divination, said to him, 
with a benevolent smile : “ Dear master Huguenin, at this mo- 
ment you are asking yourself if I am not a man of the police, a 
provocative agent.” 

Amazed at this new prodigy, Pierre bit his lips. “ If I have 
that thought,” replied he, “ are you not entirely prepared to en- 
dure the consequences — you, who accost me in so strange a 
manner — you, whom I do not know ?” 

“ Why,” returned the stranger, “ do you wish that so simple 
an action as that of accosting you on the highway should have 


126 


THE COMPANION 


any mysterious motive ? Are you, then, one of those men who 
tremble at the simple word conspiracy, and who take their 
shadow for a gend’arme ?” 

“ I have no reason to fear anything, and am not of a timid 
character,” replied Pierre. 

“ Put yourself at your ease with me, then,” returned the 
stranger, “ for you see in me a man who travels for the purpose of 
studying and knowing men. Penetrated by an ardent love of hu- 
manity, I extend to all classes of society the ardor of my investi- 
gations, and, in all, I seek for noble souls, enlightened minds. 
When I meet them on my way, I experience the necessity of 
fraternizing with them.” 

“ So,” said Pierre, smiling, “ you exercise the profession of 
philanthropist ! But if you proceed solely as you have just said, 
it is not so useful a profession as I had imagined ; for, if you 
seek only the elect of men, — they having no need of being re- 
formed, — it follows, that in associating with them on your passage 
you journey absolutely for your pleasure. In your place, I 
should think I employed my time better by seeking out mis- 
guided men, uncultivated minds, in order to put them right or to 
teach them.” 

“ I see that you deserve your reputation,” returned the 
stranger, laughing in his turn ; “ you are a man of reasoning 
and logic, and with you one must be careful of all he says.” 

“ Oh ! do not believe,” said Pierre with gentleness, “ that I 
pretend to discuss with you. No, sir : when I question, it is to 
inform myself.” 

“ Well, my friend, know that I do extend my solicitude to all 
men. To these, respect ; to those, compassion ; to all, devoted- 
ness and fraternity. But does it not seem to you, that, in the 
age in which we live, having to struggle against tyranny and the 
corruption it occasions, against the priestly spirit and the fanati- 
cism it excites, the first thing to be done is to collect men of 
capability and come to an understanding with them, in order to 
prepare the work of liberalism?” 

“ I do not presume,” said Pierre, smiling, “ that you came to 
me for that purpose. I have everything to learn, nothing to 
teach.” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


127 


“ I will prove to you that you may be very favorable to my 
regenerating views. You know the popular element, in the 
bosom of which you live, even while detaching yourself from it 
by your intellectual superiority. You can give me good ideas 
respecting the means of spreading light and propagating healthy 
political ideas in that region.” 

“ These are questions which I should wish to ask of you. Is 
it possible that you could have waited for me to commence so 
vast and so difficult a mission ? Oh ! you are laughing at me ! 
You know well that a poor workman cannot open for you any 
path towards that immense object, and that, at the most, he would 
walk tremblingly in the suite of the enlightened persons who may 
be willing to guide him.” 

“ I begin to see that, in spite of your excessive modesty, we 
understand each other quite well. I will, therefore, speak more 
clearly. If you wish to become an associate in the great work 
of the physical and moral deliverance of the people, sympathiz- 
ing men will extend their arms to you ; and, instead of leaving 
you in the obscure rank in which you seem to retrench yourself, 
they will facilitate the noble impulse, will find the high employ- 
ment of your energetic faculties. During the few days I have 
passed sX Blois, I have employed my time quite well. I know 
already what can be expected from you. I have formed around 
you connexions which you will soon be made acquainted with. 
I have already seen, already observed you. I know that you unite 
to an intrepid courage a spirit of conciliation which must, un- 
happily, fail in the obscure struggles in which you are engaged, 
but which will render immense services to the country, when 
you have entered upon a broader path, more fruitful, and more 
worthy of you. I do not wish to say more to you at present. 
You could not grant me that entire confidence at which I aim, 
and which I shall soon be able to acquire. Besides, we are now 
in the city, and it is very important for me not to be seen with 
you. I ask of you only one thing : that is, to obtain information 
respecting me from the persons whose names are here set down, 
and to have the goodness to be present at the meeting mentioned 
in this card. It will serve you as a pass. You will come there 
with certain precautions which will be pointed out to you, and 


128 


THE COMPANION 


you will be free to bring with you those of your friends for 
whom you can answer as for yourself. Farewell, till we meet 
again.” 

The stranger earnestly shook the workman’s hand, and depart- 
ed with a quick step. 


OF THE TOUR OF ERANCE. 


129 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Pierre had no leisure to reflect long upon this strange encounter. 
He had much to do, for in spite of his inward discouragement, he 
did not cease to assist his unhappy companions with all his power. 
He felt so strongly the sacredness of that duty, that he no longer 
wished to take into consideration his father’s anxiety and 
impatience, and overcame his personal troubles with heroism. 
He ran the whole day, with the dignitary and the principal 
members of the society, from the prison to the hospital, from the 
houses of the authorities to those of the lawyers. He succeeded 
in procuring the release of some of his comrades who had been 
arrested without sufficient reason. His activity, his air of frank- 
ness, and his natural eloquence made such an impression upon 
the magistrates, that they interposed no obstacle to his zeal. On 
the next day he had sadder duties to fulfil ; this was to render 
the last honors to one of his comrades, killed in the battle. This 
ceremony, at which all the gavots in Blois were present, and the 
dignitary presided, was accomplished according to the rites of 
the devoir of liberty. After the coffin was lowered into the 
grave, Pierre knelt down, and pronounced a short and beautiful 
prayer to the Supreme Being, conformably to the text of the 
sacred books ; then he rose, and advancing one foot to the brink 
of the open grave, extended his hand to one of the companions, 
who assumed the same attitude, seized his hand, and inclined his 
face towards his to exchange the mysterious words which are not 
uttered aloud ; after which, they embraced, and all the other 
companions slowly accomplished the same form, departing two 
by two from the grave, after having thrown into it three handfuls 
of earth. 

As the gavots were leaving the cemetery, another procession 
arrived, and the inimical phalanxes met in a gloomy silence 
upon the place of rest, in the asylum of eternal peace. It 


130 


THE COMPANION 


was the drille carpenters who also came to bury their dead. 
There were doubtless bitter thoughts, and vainly combated 
regrets in their souls ; for their eyes avoided those of the 
gavots, and the gend’armes, who kept guard upon them from a 
distance, were not needed to preserve order in the two camps. 
The circumstances were too mournful for either side to think 
of attempting reprisals. The gavots heard, as they retired, the 
strange howls of the devorant carpenters, a kind of savage 
lamentation with which they accompany their solemnities, and 
the intonations of which, regulated by rhythm, have a hidden 
meaning. 

On the evening of that sad day, Pierre went to visit the Corin- 
thian, and his joy was great at finding him almost restored. 
Thanks to the good treatment, and the learned prescriptions of 
Jambe-de-bois, Amaury could hope to depart in a short time, 
and Pierre explained to him the labors he was to undertake at 
the chateau of Villepreux. He then left him with the promise 
that he would speak seriously of him to the Savinienne, as soon 
as he found a favorable opportunity. 

He found it that very evening. Remaining alone with her 
and the sleeping children, in the care of whom he assisted her, 
he naturally entered upon the subject ; for she never failed to 
question him every evening, with solicitude, respecting the 
Corinthian’s situation. He spoke of his friend with the deli- 
cacy which he knew how to introduce into everything. The 
Savinienne having listened to him attentively, replied : 11 1 can 
speak to you with sincerity, and confide in you as in a man 
superior to others, my dear son Villepreux. It is very true 
that I have had for the Corinthian a friendship stronger than 
I ought, and than I wished. I have nothing with which to 
reproach him, neither have 1 in my conscience anything volun- 
tary with which to reproach myself. But, since Savinien’s 
death, I have been more frightened at this friendship than I was 
during his life. It seems to me that it is a great fault to think of 
another than him, while the earth which covers him is still fresh. 
The tears of my children accuse me, and I incessantly ask 
pardon of God for my folly. But, since we are here for an 
explanation, and your near departure compels me to speak of 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


131 


these things sooner than I could have wished, I will tell you 
everything. Very culpable ideas sometimes came to me during 
Savinien’s life. Certainly I would have given my own life to 
prevent his leaving this world ; but in fine, as he was older 
than I, and for two years the physicians had told me that he 
had a very dangerous complaint, it came to my mind in spite 
of me, that, if I should lose my dear husband, my duty would 
be to marry again ; and then I said to myself, tremblingly, I 
know well whom I should choose. Similar ideas came to 
Savinien when he felt himself more ill than usual ; and when 
he was obliged to keep his bed all the time, they came to 
him so often that at last he spoke to me of them. ‘Wife,’ 
said he to me a few days before his death, ‘ I am not well, 
and I rather fear that you will become a widow sooner than 
I expected. This troubles me for your sake, and that of our 
poor children ; you are still too young to remain exposed to all 
the friendships which the companions will feel for you. As I 
know you are an honest woman, you will suffer for the want 
of some one to impose respect upon them, and you will perhaps 
leave your inn. That would be the ruin of our children ; 
for you are not very strong, and what a woman can earn is so 
small a thing, that you would not have enough to give an educa- 
tion to our little ones. Still you know that my whole idea 
was to have them well taught to read, to write, and to keep 
accounts ; without these, no one is good for anything, and I can 
see you from here, all three, sink into poverty. If I could 
have acquitted my debt towards Romanet le Bon-soutien, I 
should be rather more easy ; but I have not been able to repay 
even a third of what he lent me, and I am greatly troubled to 
think I shall die a bankrupt, especially towards a friend. 
There is only one way to remedy this ; that is for you to become 
Bon-soutien’s wife if I leave you. He has an honest attach- 
ment for you ; he considers you as the best of women, and 
he is right ; he loves our children as if they were his 
nephews ; he will love them as if they were his own children 
when he is your husband. I have more confidence in him 
than in any other man I know. Our stock belongs to him, 
since he has paid for the greater part of it j he will thus re- 


132 


THE COMPANION 


cover his property, and keep up our business. He will give 
an education to the children ; for he is learned himself, and he 
knows the value of it. In fine, he will make you happy, and 
will love you as I love you. This is why I wish you both to 
promise me that you will marry together if I am obliged to 
leave you.’ 

“ I did, as you may believe, all in my power to make him give 
up this idea ; but the more he felt himself dying, the more he 
thought of deciding my lot. Finally, on the day when he 
received the last sacrament, he sent for Bon-soutien ; and, on 
his death-bed, he joined our hands. Romanet promised every- 
thing, weeping ; as for me, I wept too much to promise. My 
Savinien breathed out his soul, leaving me desolate at losing him, 
and very sad at being engaged to a man whom 1 respect and 
love, but whom I could not wish to take for my husband. Still 
I feel that I ought to do so, that I cannot remain a widow, that 
the lot of my children and the last will of my husband command 
me to take that wise and generous man, who has placed all 
his property in our hands, and to whom I could not restore it 
without ruining my family. Such is my situation, master Pierre ; 
this is what you must tell the Corinthian, in order that he may 
think no more of me, as I am going to pray the good God to 
enable me to think no more of him.” 

“ All that you have told me shows you to be a virtuous woman 
and a good mother,” replied Pierre. “ I approve your resolution 
to combat for the present the recollection of the Corinthian, and 
I shall advise him not to entertain too vivid hopes. Still, my 
good mother, permit me, and promise my friend, not to believe 
absolutely that all is lost. I knew our Savinien well enough to 
be very sure that, if he could have read in the bottom of your 
heart, it is to the Corinthian that he would have betrothed you. 
He would have trusted to the future of that young man, so 
courageous, so good, so skilful in his art, and as devoted to his 
memory, to his widow and children, as Bon-soutien himself can 
be. I know Bon-soutien also ; I know that his sentiments are 
too elevated to accept the sacrifice of your life and feelings. He 
will listen to reason. He will suffer without doubt ; but he is a 
man, a man of great heart. He will remain your friend and 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


133 


Amaury’s. As to the debt, I beseech you to think no more of it, 
my mother. You must restore to Romanet all that he has lent. 
If, at the termination of your mourning, the Corinthian, in spite 
of his courage and his talents, has not been able to complete the 
sum, it will be for me to find it ; and your son shall repay me 
when he is of age and understands business. Do not reply to 
me on that point. We have many cares just now, and must not 
lose time in useless words. I shall say to the Corinthian only 
what he ought to know, and I trust in the honor of the dignitary 
not to address to you, during the continuance of your mourning, 
a single word which may compel you to an engagement or a 
rupture. Weep for your good Savinien without remorse and 
without bitterness, my brave Savinienne. Do not weep for him so 
much as to make yourself ill : you owe yourself to your children, 
and the future will recompense you for the courage you must 
now have.” 

Having said this, Pierre embraced the Savinienne as a brother 
embraces his sister ; then he approached the cradle of the chil- 
dren to kiss them : 

“ Give them your blessing, master Pierre,” said the Savi- 
nienne, kneeling beside the cradle and raising the curtain ; “ the 
blessing of an angel like you will bring them happiness.” 


134 


THE COMPANION 


CHAPTER XV. 

The recital of what had passed between the Savinienne and 
Pierre gave courage to the Corinthian and hastened his recovery. 
He fixed upon the next day for his departure to Villepreux, 
resolved to deserve his happiness by a year at least of courage and 
resignation. Pierre, without ceasing to be actively engaged for 
his dear prisoners, had to think of obtaining a second companion 
to dlcort the Corinthian on his journey and assist him in the work. 
It was not absolutely necessary that this second associate in the 
labors on the chateau of Villepreux should be a distinguished 
artist ; Amaury’s talent was enough for both. He only required 
a worjkman who should be skilful and industrious in sawing, 
cutting, and cantling. The dignitary presented to him an honest 
native of Berry, who was not handsome, although he was called, 
by antithesis, no doubt, la Clef-des-cceurs (the key of hearts). 
He was a good fellow and a quick workman, so all the compa- 
nions said. This useful Berrichon, found, enlisted, and informed 
of the work intrusted to him, made up his bundle, which did not 
take long, for he had not many clothes ; and the rouleur having 
secured his discharge, that is, having ascertained, from the master 
whom he was leaving, and from the mother, that he owed nothing 
and that nothing was due to him, held himself ready to depart. 
Pierre, on this day also, made many efforts, not without success, 
for his imprisoned comrades ; and the horizon beginning to clear 
up on that side, he started for the Bower of wisdom, accompanied 
by his Berrichon, with his heart somewhat less oppressed than it 
had been on the preceding days. As they walked, he informed 
Clef-des-coeurs of the aversion which his father felt towards the 
companionship, and endeavored to make him understand the 
conduct he must observe with master Huguenin. Clef-des-cceurs 
was, certainly, a very skilful workman, but a very awkward 
diplomatist. To his perfect ingenuity he added the singular pre- 
tension of being crafty, and of being able to carry a delicate 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


135 


affair to a desired Conclusion. Pierre, who did not know him, 
mistrusted his promises. But the Berrichon renewed them with 
so much assurance, that Pierre said to himself, as he looked at 
him : We do sometimes see much sense and tact lodged, as by 
mistake, in those great heads whose dull and staring eyes do not 
badly resemble the fictitious windows which are painted upon the 
walls of irregularly lighted houses. 

It was night when they reached the Vaudois’s door. It was 
closed with care, and they were obliged to give their names in 
order to obtain an entrance. “ What means this increased pre- 
caution ?” said Pierre, in a low voice, as he embraced his host. 
“ Has the police got track of the Corinthian ?” “ No, thank 

God,” replied la Sagesse ; “ but he has left his garret on the in- 
vitation of our traveller, and we must be careful ; for this is the 
house of the good God : every one may enter.” “ What travel- 
ler?” asked Pierre, astonished. “ Him whom you know well,” 
replied the Yaudois, “since you come to the rendezvous ; he is 
waiting for you there with some persons of your acquaintance.” 

Pierre understood nothing from these words. He entered the 
hall, and saw, with some surprise, the mysterious stranger who 
had accosted him three days before on the bank of the Loire, 
at table with the dignitary, one of the four old master-locksmiths 
of the devoir of liberty, and a young lawyer of Blois whom 
Pierre Huguenin had known during his first residence in that 
city. The latter came to him, and, taking his hand in an affec- 
tionate manner, led him to the table : “ I have many reproaches 
to make to you, master Huguenin,” said he to him, “ for not 
coming to see me during the week you have been here, and for 
not having intrusted to me the defence of your comrades incul- 
pated in this last affair. You have apparently forgotten that we 
were friends, two years ago.” 

This earnest welcome and the word friends rather astonished 
Pierre Huguenin. He remembered, indeed, that he had 
worked for the young lawyer and that he had found him 
affable and benevolent ; but he did not remember that he 
had been treated by him on this footing of equality. He there- 
fore did not reply to his advances with all the freedom they 
seemed to demand. In spite of him, he turned his eyes coldly 


136 


THE COMPANION 


towards the stranger, who had risen at his approach, and now 
extended to him a hand which he hesitated to clasp. “ I hope 
that you no longer distrust me,” said the latter to him with a 
smile. “ You must have received satisfactory information re- 
specting me, and you find me in company which must reassure 
you completely. Take a seat with us therefore, and taste these 
wines. I hope, in my capacity as a travelling clerk, to procure 
some for our host which will enable him to make more profit 
than heretofore.” 

The Vaudois replied to this promise by a knowing smile, 
accompanied with a wink ; and the Berrichon, who had the 
sympathetic habit of smiling whenever he saw any one else 
smile, undertook to copy, as well as he could, the smile and the 
wink of the Vaudois. He made this benevolent grimace at the 
moment when the stranger was interrogating, with a glance, that 
unknown face, not handsome, it must be confessed, although 
gentle and full of candor. The pretended travelling clerk 
thought, therefore, from that air of intelligence, that the Berrichon 
was prepared for any overtures he might wish to make to him, 
and he extended his hand to him with the familiarity he had 
testified towards Pierre Huguenin. The Berrichon clasped that 
patronizing hand with all his strength and without the least mis- 
trust, crying, in a penetrated tone, “ Well and good, here are 
citizens who are not proud.” 

“ I thank you, my brave fellow,” said the stranger, “ for 
having been willing to come and sup with us. This frank cor- 
diality does you honor.” 

“ The honor is on my side,” replied the Berrichon, quite radi- 
ant ; and he seated himself without ceremony by the side of 
the stranger, who began to help him. 

Pierre saw clearly that there was a mistake here, and he did 
not think it wrong to profit by it in order to obtain information 
without compromising himself. He still thought, indeed, that 
this stranger might be a spy, a kind of provocative agent such 
*as people imagined they saw everywhere, and such as there 
really were many of at that period. It was in the summer of 
1823. The failure and severe punishment of numerous con- 
spiracies had not yet discouraged the secret societies. They 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


137 


labored perhaps with less boldness in France than during pre- 
ceding years for the overthrow of the Bourbons, but they still did 
labor with some remains of hope upon the Spanish frontier. 
Ferdinand VII. was a prisoner in the hands of the liberal 
party, and they still flattered themselves with the hope of a revolt 
in the French army, commanded by the Due d’Angouleme. Still 
the secrets of Garbonarism were somewhat discovered, and the 
government agents were everywhere on its track. Pierre had 
good reason to mistrust the recruiter, who endeavored to obtain 
his sympathy. He saw, with terror, the Corinthian, the digni- 
tary, and the master-locksmith, enter into connexion with him. 
He was resolved to save these latter from the snare which per- 
haps was laid for them, and he at first concealed his fears in 
order better to observe the unknown, into whose company chance 
had again brought him. 

At first this one did not disclose himself, waiting for Pierre 
Huguenin to do so. 

“ Well,” said he, “you came here on business, did you not ?” 

“ Certainly,” replied Pierre, who wished to let him make the 
advances. 

“ And your companion also V 9 said the pretended travelling 
clerk, looking at the Berrichon, who was still smiling. 

“ Yes,” replied Pierre, “ he is a man very fit for all kinds of 
business.” 

The dignitary and the master locksmith turned and looked 
at Clef-des-cceurs with surprise. Pierre had some difficulty in 
keeping a serious countenance. 

“ So much the better !” cried the traveller. “ Well ! my 
children, we shall be able to understand each other, and without 
much ceremony. Doubtless you have seen each other ?” added 
he, looking alternately at the dignitary and Pierre Huguenin. 

“ Certainly,” replied Pierre, “ we see each other from morn- 
ing to night.” 

“ I understand,” returned the traveller ; “ then I shall not 
have much of a preamble to make with you.” 

“ Allow me,” said the dignitary ; “ I have not spoken of you 
with my pays Villepreux.” 


138 


THE COMPANION 


“In that case it is our friend the lawyer,” returned the 
traveller. 

“ No, not I, either,” replied the lawyer ; “ but what matters 
it, since friend Pierre is here ?” 

“ In fact,” said the traveller, “ that proves that he is sure of 
us ; and as to ourselves, we are sure of him.” 

Pierre drew the lawyer a little aside. 

“ Do you know this gentleman ?” asked he of him in a low 
voice. 

“ As myself,” replied the lawyer. 

Pierre addressed the same question to the dignitary, who 
made about the same answer. 

At last he questioned also the master locksmith, who replied : 

“ No better than you do ; but some friends have assured me 
of his good faith, and I am tempted to take hold of politics. 
Still I wish first to see what there is to depend upon.” 

Pierre examined the Yaudois, and was soon convinced that a 
bond, if not mysterious, at least sympathetic, existed between 
him and the travelling clerk. He began therefore to change his 
opinion respecting the latter, and to listen to him with as much 
interest as he had at first felt repugnance. 

He was preparing to warn him of the nullity of the Berri- 
chon’s part, when some one knocked at the door, and two persons 
in sporting-jackets, having guns on their shoulders and game-bags 
at their sides, entered and deposited their guns and provision of 
game on the table, while they exchanged affectionate grasps of 
the hand with the lawyer and travelling clerk. 

“Well,” said one of the sportsmen, whose face was not un- 
known to Pierre Huguenin, “ we have not beat the bush in vain 
to-day — and I see we can make the same compliment to you,” 
added he, lowering his voice, and addressing the traveller, while 
he looked at Pierre, the Corinthian, the master locksmith, and 
the Berrichon, who had grouped themselves at one end of the 
table from feelings of discretion. 

“Father Vaudois, put this hare on the spit for us,” said the 
other sportsman, whom Pierre recognised as one of the young 
physicians who had attended at the hospital the companions 
wounded in the mother’s house ; “ our dogs ran him down ; he 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


139 


will be tender as a lark. We are dying with hunger and fatigue, 
and are very fortunate not to have to go to Blois for supper.” 

“ This is a lucky meeting,” cried the travelling clerk ; “ and 
you shall help us taste the good wines of which I have brought 
samples. It is you, gentlemen, who will advise father Yaudois 
to replenish his canteen ; and as you sometimes have to do with 
it on your shooting excursions, you will be sure not to find it 
dry.” 

The two sportsmen praised the lucky chance which brought 
them into company with their friends. But Pierre, who observed 
them attentively, was not duped by this pretended chance meet- 
ing. He caught looks interchanged, which clearly proved to him 
that he, as well as the master locksmith, was the subject of a 
serious examination on the part of these gentlemen. The older 
of the two was a retired captain of the old army, established in 
the neighborhood. Pierre had formerly seen him at Blois, and 
even given him some lessons in geometry. At that time, the 
captain, terrified by the privations imposed upon him by his half- 
pay, had desired to undertake some industrial profession and to 
establish a joiner’s shop in his native village. But Pierre had 
found that military head harder than the brass of a cannon, and 
the education had not gone beyond the first elements of the 
science. 

This brave captain welcomed his former preceptor with a 
manner full of cordiality. Born among the people, he had no 
difficulty in returning to them. The physician tried to show 
himself as fraternal with the workman ; but he did not succeed : 
it was easy to see that his part was a forced one. The lawyer 
had more ease and tact ; but Pierre remembered very well that 
this agreeable young man had not, two years before, the custom 
of shaking hands with him when he presented his bill of work. 

They all seated themselves at table together. The Berrichon 
had complacently gone to help the Vaudois turn the spit. Pierre 
forgot him the sooner because he began to take more interest in 
the conversation ; it soon turned upon politics. 

“ What news, M. Lefort?” asked the captain of the travelling 
clerk. 

“News from Spain,” replied the latter, “and good news; 


140 


THE COMPANION 


Everything goes well for the good party ; the Cortes assembled 
at Seville, have determined on Ferdinand’s departure for Cadiz. 
The old hunks pretended to resist ; they decided his forfeiture 
unanimously, and a provisory regency has been nominated : it 
is composed of Valdes, Ciscar, and Vigodet.” 

This news appeared to excite transports of joy in the travel- 
ler’s friends ; but the workmen had small part in it. The former 
took pains to explain to them the importance of the success of 
liberalism in Spain, and the influence which the victory of that 
party would exercise in France. On this subject the politics of 
the day were discussed under all their aspects. Achille Lefort 
(this was the name of the travelling clerk) demonstrated the im- 
possibility of submitting to the government of the Bourbons in 
Europe, and praised the advantages of the spirit of propagandism 
which was at work in several centres simultaneously for the 
destruction of tyrannical authorities. They became animated, 
and, when the smoking hare was brought on, the travelling clerk 
exhibited numerous samples of wine, which Pierre considered 
well chosen to be probably destined for the Vaudois’s cellar. 
Pie mistrusted these stimulants to patriotism, and saw with plea- 
sure that the master locksmith also kept on his guard. Though 
they no longer suspected the traveller’s good faith, neither of them 
cared to enrol himself under a banner which would not represent 
his real feelings. 

The Berrichon, having finished his functions as turnspit, dis- 
posed himself to fill those of a guest, and he placed himself on 
the right of M. Achille Lefort, who, as well as the advocate, 
laid himself out to please him. They succeeded easity, for no 
soul in the world was more benevolent at table than that of the 
Berrichon. Pierre sought for a pretext to remove him, but it 
was not easy ; for the good cheer, united with the bumpers which 
were abundantly poured out for him on right and left, filled him 
with joy, and he was by no means disposed to listen to the advice 
to go to bed. Neither was it any more easy to make those pre- 
sent understand that this joyous guest was not an ardent neo- 
phyte ; for he was there on the guarantee of Pierre, and the 
latter remembered that the traveller had said on leaving him : 

Bring whom you will, provided you can answer for them as for 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


141 


yourself.” Moreover the Berrichon entered valiantly into the 
ideas of his generous Amphitryons. They wished to sound his 
opinions, and he, desirous of pleasing, and very shrewd in his 
way, took good care not to let it be seen that he did not under- 
stand a particle of the questions which were addressed to him. 
He replied to all with that ambiguity which distinguishes the 
Berrichon mechanic ; and as soon as he had seized a word he 
repeated it with enthusiasm, drinking to the health of all the 
world. The old soldier spoke of Napoleon: “ Ah ! yes, the lit- 
tle corporal !” shouted the Berrichon ; “ vive l’empereur ! I am 
for the emperor !” “ He is dead,” said Pierre to him sharply. 

“ Ah ! yes, that is true. Well ! hurrah for his child ! vive 
Napoleon II. !” An instant after the lawyer spoke of La Fayette : 
“ Vive La Fayette !” cried the Berrichon, — “if that one is not 
dead too.” At last, the word republic escaped the lips of the tra- 
veller : the Berrichon cried out : “ Hurrah for the republic !” 
accompanying each exclamation with a fresh bumper. 

The traveller, who had liked him very much at first, began to 
think him rather simple, and his looks questioned Pierre Hugue- 
nin. The latter only answered by constantly filling the Berri- 
chon’s glass, and exciting him to drink, so well, that in five 
minutes Clef-des-coeurs threatened to go to sleep across the 
table. Pierre took him in his strong arms, and though he was 
by no means a light bundle, carried him to the garret and depo- 
sited him on the Corinthian’s bed. Then he returned to the 
table, and, freed from all his anxieties, took part in the conversa- 
tion. Until then it had been a general talk, a kind of disserta- 
tion in which various opinions were discussed under a dubitative 
form. They had been animated nevertheless, but without bitter- 
ness, and the guests appeared to agree upon a principal point 
which they did not mention, but which seemed to establish a 
sympathetic bond between them. This lively and cheerful tone 
seduced Pierre ; his curiosity was excited more and more, and 
he soon ceased to see that he was himself the object of others’ 
curiosity. Still there was not much art in this ; and the travel- 
ler, he who appeared to be the impromptu president of this meet- 
ing, showed so little reserve, that Pierre was surprised to see so 
young and so giddy a man intrusted with so dangerous a mis- 


142 


THE COMPANION 


sion. But that young man expressed himself with a facility 
which pleased him, and which exercised a kind of fascination 
upon the dignitary and the Vaudois. Pierre felt himself drawn 
to lay aside his habitual reserve, and to put questions in his turn. 
“ You asserted just now, sir,” said he to the stranger, “ that there 
exists in France a powerful party ready to proclaim the repub- 
lic ?” 

“ I am certain of it,” replied the stranger, with a smile ; “ I 
have travelled over France sufficiently, thanks to my business, 
to be in correspondence with Frenchmen of every class. I can 
assure you that I have everywhere found republican feelings ; 
and if, from any unexpected catastrophe, the Bourbons should be 
overthrown, the ultra liberal party would prevail over all the 
others.” 

The old officer shook his head ; the physician smiled. Each 
of them entertained a different thought. “ My opinion seems 
erroneous to these gentlemen,” resumed the traveller, politely : 
“Well! what do you think of it, M. Huguenin ? Do you be- 
lieve that there is among the people any other feeling than a 
republican one ?” 

“ I ask myself how there can be any other,” replied Pierre. 
“ Is not that your opinion, you who represent the people here 
with me ?” added he, addressing the dignitary and the other 
workman. 

The dignitary placed his hand upon his heart, and his silence 
was an eloquent answer. The Vaudois took off his cap, and 
raising it above his head : “ I would not wish to dye it in the 
blood of any Frenchman,” cried he ; “ but to see this displayed 
over France, I would offer my head therewith.”* 

The master locksmith reflected some moments, then he said 
with a reserved air : “ The republic did not do us all the good it 
promised : I cannot foresee what it might do for us at present ; 
but, as to blood,” added he, with a concentrated fury, “ l should 
like to shed it. I should like to see that of our enemies flow to 
the last drop.” “ Bravo !” cried the traveller ; “ O, yes ! hatred 
to foreigners, war to the enemies of France ! And you, you, 
master Huguenin, what wish do you form ?” 



OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


143 


“ I could wish that all men would live together as brothers,’’ 
replied Pierre ; “ that is all I wish. With that, many evils can 
be borne ; without that, liberty would do us no good.” 

“ I told you so,” returned the traveller, addressing his friends, 
“ he is a philanthropist, a philosopher of the last century.” 

“ No, sir, no, I do not think so,” replied Pierre, earnestly. 
“ The most liberal of all those philosophers was Jean Jacques 
Rousseau, and he has said that no republic was possible without 
slaves.” 

“ Can he have said such a thing ?” criedt he advocate. “ No, 
he did not say it ; it is impossible !” 

“ Read the Social Contract,” replied Pierre, “ and you will be 
convinced of it.” 

“ So you are not a republican after the manner of Jean 
Jacques ?” 

“ Nor you either, sir, I presume.” 

“ Consequently you are not one after the manner of Robes- 
pierre ?” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ Well ! You are one after the manner of Lafayette ! Bravo !” 

“ I know not what is the manner of Lafayette.” 

“ His system is that of wise men, of the enemies of anarchy, 
of the real liberals, in a word. A revolution without proscrip- 
tions, without scaffolds.” 

“ A revolution from which we are consequently far distant,” 
replied Pierre. “ And yet men conspire ! — ” 

This word was followed by a general silence. 

“ Who conspires ?” asked the traveller, with a cheerful assur- 
ance. “ Nobody here, that I know of.” 

“ Excuse me, sir,” replied Pierre ; “ I do, I conspire.” 

“ You ! how ? with what object ? with whom ? against whom ?” 

“ All alone, in the secret of my thoughts, dreaming almost 
always, weeping sometimes. I conspire against all the evils that 
exist, with the object, if not with the hope, of changing all. Will 
you be of my party ?” 

« I am so !” replied the traveller, with a somewhat affected 
enthusiasm. “ You seem to me the master of us all, and I love 
that soul of a tribune and a reformer, that courage of a Brutus, 


144 


THE COMPANION 


that dark fanaticism, that profound firmness worthy of Saint Just 
and of Dan ton. I drink to the memory of those misunderstood 
heroes, illustrious martyrs of liberty !” 

The toast of the traveller had but a single echo. The old 
master-locksmith extended his glass, and approached it to that of 
the orator. But he drew it back immediately, saying, “ I never 
touch my full glass against an empty one. I have always mis- 
trusted that.” 

“ You do not drink to the memory of those men ?” said the 
Vaudois irresolutely to Pierre Huguenin. 

“ No,” replied Pierre, “ those are men and things which I do 
not well understand as yet, and which I feel myself too inferior 
to judge.” 

The guests looked at Pierre Huguenin with some surprise ; 
the physician wished to compel him to explain himself more 
fully. 

“ You seem to me,” says he, “ even while retrenching your- 
self within honorable scruples, to have very decided ideas. Why 
should you make a mystery of them to us ? Are we not sure of 
each other here ? and, besides, do we do anything more than 
talk for the sake of talking ? There are two political principles 
raised and discussed in France at this moment : the absolute go- 
vernment and the constitutional government. This is what now 
interests true Frenchmen, without its being necessary to refer to 
a past, painful to remember for some, dangerous to invoke for 
others. Things have changed their names ; why not conform to 
the forms of language which France has seen fit to adopt ? That 
which our fathers called indivisible republic, we call constitu- 
tional charter. Let us accept that denomination, and enlist 
ourselves under that banner, since it is the only one now dis- 
played.” 

“ That manner of seeing simplifies the question very much,” 
replied Pierre, smiling. 

“ And now that it is thus stated,” resumed the physician, “ will 
you tell us if you are for or against the charter.” 

“ I am,” replied Pierre, “ for this principle inscribed at the 
head of the constitutional charter: All Frenchmen are equal 
before the law. But as I do not see this principle put in prac- 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


145 


tice in the institutions consecrated by the charter, I cannot be 
earnest for a constitutional government, whatever it may be, 
so long as I see the text of the divine law written on your monu- 
ments, and obliterated from your consciences. The republic, 
the remembrance of which you invoke, did not so understand it, 
I believe ; it sought to practise justice, and all means seemed 
good to this end. God is my witness that I am not a man of 
blood, and yet I confess that I understand much better that savage 
rigor which said to the overthrown powers : 1 Make peace with 
us, or be annihilated,’ than a vague system which would pro- 
mise us equality without giving it to us.” 

“ I told you so !” cried the traveller, with his hypocritically 
superb tone of benevolence ; “ he is a mountaineer, a pure jaco- 
bin of the old rock. Well ! that is grand ! it is frank, it is 
bold. What do you want more ? we must take people as they 
are.” 

“ Doubtless,” replied the physician ; “ but should we not, for 
the sake of more frankness and clearness, endeavor to come to an 
understanding with master Pierre ? A man like him certainly 
deserves that we should take the trouble to show things to him 
in their true light.” 

“ I ask only that,” said Pierre. “ Look, are the doors well 
closed ? Is there any one among you before whom I ought not 
to explain myself? As to myself, I feel neither fear nor embar- 
rassment in telling you what I think. Whether you conspire or 
not, gentlemen, I care little ; but you express wishes, feelings, 
and I do not see why I should not have the same pleasure. I 
have not come here to be questioned, I suppose, for you have 
nothing to learn from me, and you probably know all that I am 
ignorant of. Let me speak therefore. It is very evident that no 
one here believes in the love of the Bourbons for liberal institu- 
tions. It is very certain that we have neither confidence nor 
sympathy with that government, and that we should choose an- 
other to-morrow if we could. What would it be ? Here we, 
simple people, are stopped, awaiting your answer. We find 
several names on your programmes ; for we sometimes read the 
newspapers, and we see that the liberals do not entirely agree 
among themselves. I believe, for instance, that, without going 


140 


THE COMPANION 


out of this room, we should find very different opinions. M. the 
lawyer would be for La Fayette, if I am not mistaken, and M. 
the physician for another whom he does not name. M. the captain 
would be for the king of Rome, and father Vaudois perhaps 
would not have him spoken of, nor I either : who knows ? In 
fine, you have each some one in view, and I should gain nothing 
by knowing whom each wishes ; thus it is not that I ask — ” 

“ What do you ask then ?” said the physician, rather drily. 

“ I do not ask who will be put in the place of the king ; I ask 
what will be put in the place of the charter. ” 

“ Ah, ha, the charter does not satisfy you !” said the lawyer, 
laughing. 

“That’s not impossible,” replied Pierre somewhat archly. 
“ And if a part of the nation should be in the same case with me, 
what should you say to satisfy them ?” 

“ Zounds ! that is not very embarrassing,” said the traveller 
gaily. “We would say to those who consider the charter badly 
made : Make it better.” 

“ And if we should say that we consider it wholly bad, and 
that we desire an entirely new one ?” said the master-locksmith, 
who had listened to all this discussion with the spiteful austerity 
of an old jacobin. 

“ In that case, we would say to you,” replied Achille Lefort : 
“ Make another at once, and forward the Marseillaise .” 

“ Is that the feeling of all of you ?” cried the old man with a 
voice of thunder, rising and casting a sombre look upon his stu- 
pefied hearers : “ In that case I am yours, and I open my vein to 
sign the contract with my blood ; otherwise, I break the glass in 
which I have drunk your healths.” 

Speaking thus, he extended his right arm, bared to the elbow, 
and tatooed with cabalistic signs, while with the left he struck 
his glass upon the table and shook it with his violence. His 
gloomy and severe face, his heavy white eyebrows lowering over 
his inflamed eyes, all his aspect at once brutal and imposing, 
produced a disagreeable impression upon the lawyer and physi- 
cian. At first the sally of the old sans-culotie had made them 
smile disdainfully ; but that smile expired on their lips when 
they saw how serious was his action and how passionate his ad- 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


14 ” 


dress. The Vaudois, electrified by his example, had risen also; 
and the Corinthian, who had listened to everything without say- 
ing a word, absorbed in a melancholy and deep attention, ex- 
tended his hand upon that of the master-locksmith, and there kept 
it fixed and contracted, with paleness on his lips and indignation 
in his heart. Too modest and too proud to speak, he had felt a 
mortal antipathy develope and increase within him from moment 
to moment against these conspirators with white hands ; and each 
of their flattering words, each of their mocking smiles, had made 
a burning wound on his proud heart. 

Pierre looked at the three proletaries standing in front of those 
reduced revolutionists, and forming a group like that of the oath 
of the three Swiss at Ruthly. He smiled to see their powerful 
attitude and their deep expression suddenly disconcert those men 
so maliciously polite. He felt at the same time a strong flow of 
tenderness towards those who were his brothers ; and though he 
had neither the political passions of the two old men, nor the am- 
bition of the younger, he swore in his heart faith and alliance to 
them and all their race ; for on that side was divine right. 

Still the traveller soon recovered from his surprise. Like a 
man accustomed to brave all kinds of resistances, and to endure 
all kinds of oppositions, he began gently to banter the old patriot. 

“Well! what is this old brave about?” cried he gaily. 
“ Would not one say that he took us for political kidnappers, and 
had come to our supper as to a conspiracy ? If you were heard 
outside, my master, we should get halters round our necks. 
Really, this comes from not knowing how to talk quietly about 
public affairs. Is not each one free in a wine shop to sing his 
song and toast his saint ? If your’s is saint Couthon or saint 
Robespierre, who hinders you from celebrating him ? I don’t 
see why you should be put out with us, unless you take us for 
gend’armes. Thank God, we are in a safe house, and we all 
know each other ; if it were not so, you would frighten us, as 
Croquemitaine does the little children. Come, my master, empty 
your glass instead of cracking it. I will drink with you in honor 
of whomsoever you wish ; for I respect all opinions, I salute all 
the glories of France. France ! my friends ! when a man loves 
France, he does not understand how her true children can quarrel 


148 


THE COMPANION 


among themselves about mere names. But we have had politics 
enough for this evening, since they disturb the good feelings of 
our meeting. Father Vaudois, let us talk of our business. Shall 
I send you, then, two barrels of this white wine. Directly, cap- 
tain, we will talk of your quarter-cask of Burgundy ; and, as to 
you, gentlemen, if you will make out your orders, I will enter 
them in my book at once.” 

The physician and the lawyer began to speak seriously of their 
wine cellars, and every other subject of conversation was laid 
aside, as if the principal object of the supper had been for the 
purpose of tasting. Then they talked of hunting, of guns, of 
dogs and partridges, and soon every trace of a serious attempt, 
or project, was effaced from the meeting. 

The dignitary took Pierre aside. 

“ The company in which you came here,” said he, alluding 
to the Berrichon, “ proves to me that you did not expect to meet 
certain persons. Still they appeared to expect you. Whence 
comes that error ? ” 

“ I asked myself the same question at first,” replied Pierre, 
“ and then I remembered that mention had been made to me of 
a rendezvous which I had forgotten. I only came to see the 
Corinthian off with the Berrichon, as was agreed between us.” 

“ Was not a note handed you ? ” said the dignitary. 

“ So there was,” said Pierre, “ but I have been engrossed by 
so many other cares that I did not even think of opening it. I 
must have it about me now.” 

He searched in his pockets, and there found, in fact, the 
stranger’s mysterious note. He unfolded it, approached the light 
of the fire, and read the names of the dignitary and the lawyer, 
as well as those of several other responsible persons well known 
to him at Blois. 

“ Those are the persons,” said Romanet, “ who were to assure 
you of the loyalty of this merchant ; but since you have not con- 
sulted them, and we are here, we will be, if you desire, his 
sureties with you, as we have been yours with him. As to the 
rendezvous, look at your note again, it must have been fixed for 
this evening, and the place where we are.” 

“ It is so, in fact,” replied Pierre, after having examined the 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


149 


paper again. “ But why this singular pretext : ‘ For the quality 
of the wines , consult messieurs so and so, fyc. ; To taste them, go 
to the inn of, fyc. ? ’ It is true that my negligence in reading 
this note, proves how easily such things are lost.” 

“ And as the smallest pretext might occasion persecution, you 
would do well to burn it,” said the dignitary. 

Pierre handed the note to the dignitary, who immediately 
threw it into the fire. “ Have you, by chance, gone further with 
those persons than I have ? ” asked Pierre, secretly designating 
those who had remained at the table. 

The kind of embarrassment with which Bon-soutien replied, 
that he had never had other than business relations with the 
traveller, united with the silence he had observed during the 
discussion at supper, proved to Pierre that he was more pledged 
than he could confess. The pretext which he used as a motive 
for his intimacy with that agent for secret societies, was too im- 
probable to leave the smallest doubt in that respect. Pierre un- 
derstood that he ought not to question a man bound by oaths ; and 
pretending to be satisfied by what he said, he left him, and went 
to help the Corinthian awaken the Berrichon, for they already 
heard at a distance the rolling of the vehicle which was to con- 
vey them to Villepreux. With some trouble they succeeded in 
getting their comrade to his feet ; and, after fraternal farewells, 
l’Ami-du-trait and the Corinthian separated, one taking with the 
Berrichon the road to Villepreux, the other that to Blois, with the 
dignitary and the master locksmith. 

“ I believe,” said the latter on leaving the wine shop, “ that 
those persons have gone further with us than they intended ; or 
that they thought us more simple than we are. No matter, cer- 
tain things, half guessed, are as sacred as if they had been en- 
tirely confided ; is not that your feeling, pays Villepraux ? ” 

“It is a law for my conscience,” replied Pierre Iluguenin. 
The dignitary kept a profound silence. He had been pledged a 
long while, and perhaps was at that moment making reflections 
which had not before presented themselves to him. His two 
companions had the delicacy to speak to him of other matters. 

While they were journeying towards the city, the Vaudois, 
absorbed in his thoughts, was arranging his plates and bottles 


150 


THE COMPANION 


with a melancholy air. M. Achille Lefort, pretended travelling 
clerk, in reality member of the recruiting committee of carbo- 
narism, the Napoleonist Captain, the Lafayettist lawyer, and the 
Orleanist physician, grouped under the chimney-piece, conversed 
in a low tone. 

the physician i “ Well, my poor Achille, this is another of 
your stupidities. Ah ! you want to meddle with sans-culottism l 
See how you succeed !” 

achille lefort : “ That is your fault, your own. If I had 
been alone, 1 could have turned those people as I wished. I 
thought I could inspire them with confidence by showing to them 
responsible persons ; I ought to have recollected that those per- 
sons are good for nothing. Do you think you can talk to the 
people, any of you V 9 

the lawyer, to the physician : “ Hear him talk about his 
people ! One would say that we knew nothing of the people, we 
who are in continual connexion with them.” 

achille lefort : “ You only see them when they are ill in 
body or mind. A lawyer ! a physician ! you have to do only 
with the sores of the moral and physical order ! You are not 
acquainted with the people in good health. Is not that joiner an 
intelligent and well-informed man V 9 

the physician : “ A great deal too much of a caviller, and too 
learned for a workman. You never can do anything with those 
brains stuffed with poorly- arranged reading and poorly-digested 
theories. If it were necessary to command a nation composed 
of such men, Napoleon himself would return to the earth in 
vain.” 

the captain : “In his time there ’were none such. He led 
them to the war, and there was no time for cavilling.” 

the lawyer : “ There were such in his time, too ; for there 
have always been. They cavilled in war as in peace ; only, 
the great man, who did not favor philosophical discussions, re- 
quested them to have the goodness to be silent. He called them 
ideologists .” 

the captain : “ He would have called you the same. Really, 
you appear to me very singular with your theories, your con- 
stitutions, and your distinction between absolute and constitutional 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


151 


governments ! What is all that to us ? We must drive away 
the enemy, make war with the foreigners and their Bourbons, 
the royalists and their black coats. Afterwards we will see. 
What need was there for your discussing with those honest work- 
men ? You must talk to them about each taking a musket and 
twenty-five cartridges. That is the only language the French 
people understand.” 

achille lefort : “ You see very well that it is not so, and 
that nowadays they wish to see where they are going. I under- 
stand the matter, and have enrolled more than one who knows 
no better than I do the principle for which we have been working 
these twenty years. But who cares? Agitate, excite, associate, 
arm ; with that we can go anywhere.” 

the physician : “ Even to the republic. A fine conclusion, 
and worthy the exordium.” 

achille : “ Well ! And why not the republic ?” 
the lawyer : “ Eh ! Certainly, the republic ! Can we ask 
for anything better, when it is represented by the purest, the most 
upright, the most moderate of men ?” 

the physician : “ Those men are fools, if they think they can 
muzzle the people when they have let them loose.” 

achille : “ Bah ! The people are as gentle as a child, after 
victory. You do not know them, I tell you. I would under- 
take to manage ten thousand like those you have just seen.”* 
the physician : “ Yes, like the old jacobin locksmith, for ex- 
ample ! A pretty specimen ! I confess that I feel no taste for 
those drinkers of blood. With that populace unchained, we 
should be overwhelmed ; we should go straight to anarchy, to 
barbarism, to terror, to all the horrors of ’93.” 

achille : “ Well ! let them come, if necessary; they are 
better than the darkness of the Jesuits, and the stupid flatness of 
tyranny. Let us march, act, no matter how, provided we feel 
ourselves live, and have something great to do. Was not Robes- 
pierre’s time a grand one ? A day of glory, an illustrious death, 
an immortal name — it is enough to give one the fever, even to 
think of it.” 

the lawyer : “ He talks of all that like an amateur ! If you 


152 


THE COMPANION 


are in love with martyrdom, why didn’t you get yourself shot 
with Caron ?” 

achille : “ Bah ! Caron, Berton, weak minds, fools ! men 
dissatisfied with their position, who would have kept quiet if the 
court had satisfied their personal ambition !” 

the captain : “ Say heroes whom you have calumniated and 
meanly deserted ! Mille bombes ! if I had been listened to in 
those days, they would not have died on the scaffold. This is 
why your carbonarism makes me sick at heart. I blush to belong 
to it now.” (He takes his gu^t, and prepares to go out.) 

achille : “ It is always just so. When we have suffered a 
reverse, we blame each other, until a victory unites us again. 
That’s the old story !” 

the physician, taking his gun to go : “ To tell you the truth, I 
have no more faith in your victories. If the liberals fail in Spain, 
good night to the company. We must find something better than 
your carbonarism, to which nobody holds, where no one knows the 
other, and there is no mutual understanding.” 

the lawyer : “ Good night, Achille. No matter ; we are in 
the right road, we two. We have for us all the men of talent, 
Manuel, Foy, Kdratry, d’Argenson, Sebastiani, Benjamin Con- 
stant, and the old patriarch with the white horse. Hey ! father 
La Fayette ? there’s a man.” 

achille : “ Good night, all of you. I don’t care for your 
flare-ups !” (To the lawyer :) “ Good night, my little Mirabeau 
in bud ! We shall see a good deal come to pass yet before we 
die — be easy !” 

the lawyer, to Achille : “ Good night, my Barnave !” 

THE physician, to Achille : “ Good night, father Duchene !” 
achille : “ As you choose ! Either the one or the other, as 
may be, if I can serve France! ” 

the captain, between his teeth : “ Oh ! for a good volley on all 
these gabblers !” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


153 


CHAPTER XVI. 

The examination directed against those who were engaged in the 
terrible quarrel between the gavots and the devorants resulted 
in completely exculpating the first, and freeing them from all 
accusation. Pierre and Romanet, called as principal witnesses, 
distinguished themselves by their courage, their frankness, and 
their firmness. The fine face, the noble bearing, and the simple 
and select language of Pierre Huguenin attracted the attention 
of the liberals of the city, who were present with their journalists 
at the sittings of the tribunal. But he was not the object of any 
fresh advances, for he departed as soon as he saw himself no 
longer necessary. 

What did Father Huguenin do and think during his son’s 
absence ? The good man was vexed and angry ; but, more 
than all, he was anxious. “ He is so exact and so ready in 
everything he undertakes !” said he to himself. “ Some misfor- 
tune must have happened to him !” And then he was distressed ; 
for he had never perceived the love and esteem he felt for his 
son so much as since this last separation. 

As Pierre had feared, his fever increased, and he had not 
been able to leave his bed on the day, when, luckily, Amaury 
and the Berrichon arrived. On the road, the Corinthian had 
renewed to his companion the request which Pierre had be- 
fore made, to spare father Huguenin’s prejudices, respect- 
ing the companionship ; and, as he felt a repugnance to begin 
his connexion with his new master by a lie, he desired the Berri- 
chon to speak first. On leaping down from the diligence, they 
asked for the house of the joiner, and entered it, one with the 
ease of a blockhead, the other with the reserve of a man of 
sense. 

“ Hola ! he ! hohe !” cried the Berrichon, knocking with his 
8 * 


154 


THE COMPANION 


stick upon the open door. “ House ho ! health, good-day the 
house ! Does not father Huguenin, master-joiner, live here ?” 

At this moment father Huguenin was resting on his bed ; he 
was in such bad humor, that he could not bear to have any one 
in his chamber. On seeing his solitude so rudely disturbed, he 
leaped up, and drawing back his curtain of yellow serge, he saw 
the strangely-jovial face of Berrichon la Clef-des-cceurs. “ Go 
your ways, friend,” replied he, roughly, “ the inn is further 
on.” 

(e And if we wish to take your house for our inn ?” returned 
la Clef-des-coeurs, who, counting upon the pleasure which his 
arrival would cause to the old joiner, thought it pleasant to jest a 
little before making himself known. 

“ In that case,” replied Father Huguenin, beginning to put on 
his vest, “ I will show you that if you enter a sick man’s house 
without ceremony, you may go out with still less.” 

“ Excuse my comrade, master,” said Amaury, showing him- 
self and saluting his friend’s father with respect ; “ we come to 
you from Pierre, your son, to offer you our services.” 

“ My son !” cried the master, “ where is my son, then ?” 

“ At Blois, detained for two or three days yet by some business 
of which he will himself inform you ; he has enlisted us, and 
here are two words from him to announce us.” 

Father Huguenin, having read his son’s billet, felt him- 
self grow better and more calm. “ Well and good,” said he, 
“ your demeanor is good, my son, and your face pleases me ; but 
your comrade has strange manners of his own. Look you, friend,” 
added he, measuring the Berrichon with a severe eye, “ are you 
more correct at your work than in the house ? Your cap does 
not become you, my boy.” 

“ My cap V 9 said the Berrichon quite astonished, uncovering 
himself and examining his headpiece with simplicity. “ Zounds, 
it is not handsome, master, but one must wear what one has.” 

“ But one uncovers himself before a master with white hairs,” 
said the Corinthian, who had understood father Huguenin’s 
thought. 

“ To be sure ! I wasn’t brought up in a college,” replied the 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


155 


Berrichon, putting his cap under his arm, “ but I work with good 
will — that is all I know how to do.” 

“ Well, we shall see that, my children,” said Father Hugue- 
nin, softening. “ You come in good time, for the work presses, 
and I am here on my bed like an old horse on the straw. You 
shall drink a glass of my wine, and then I will conduct you to 
the chateau ; for, dead or alive, I must re-assure and satisfy my 
employer.” 

The honest man, having called his maid-servant, tried to rise, 
while his companions did honor to the refreshment. But he 
suffered so much that Amaury perceived it, and requested him, 
with his usual gentleness, not to disturb himself. He assured 
him that, thanks to Pierre, he was as au fait to the work as if he 
had begun it himself ; and, to prove it to him, he described the 
form and dimensions of the covings, of the pannels, of the cor- 
nices, of the string-boards, of the curves with double curvature, 
of the joining-caps, &c., &c., to a line, with so much memory 
and facility, that the old joiner again looked at him fixedly. 
Then, thinking of the advantage of a science which renders the 
most complicated operations so clear, and engraves them so well 
on the mind, he scratched his ear, again put on his cotton cap, 
and resumed his bed, saying, “ God’s will be done !” 

“ Trust to us,” replied Amaury. “ The desire to satisfy you 
will supply the want of your advice to-day ; and, perhaps, to- 
morrow you will be able to come to our assistance. In the 
meanwhile, take a good nap, and don’t torment yourself.” 

“ No, no, don’t torment yourself, my master,” cried la Clef- 
des-coeurs, hastily swallowing a last glass of wine. “ You shall 
see that you were wrong in turning the cold shoulder on two 
pretty companions like us.” 

“ Companions,” murmured Father Huguenin, whose brow 
immediately grew dark. 

«Ah! I said that to make you angry,” responded the Berri- 
chon, laughing, “ because I know that you do not like the com. 
panions.” 

“ Ah ! ah ! you belong to the companionship ?” growled father 
Huguenin, divided between his old spite and I know not what 
sudden sympathy. 


156 


THE COMPANION 


“ Yes, yes,” continued the Berrichon, who had at least wit. 
enough to know how to jest about his ugliness ; “ we are in 
the devoir of the handsome boys, and I am the ensign of that 
regiment.” 

“We know but one devoir (duty) here,” said the Corinthian, 
playing upon the word, “ that of serving you well.” 

“May God hear you!” replied Father Huguenin ; and he 
covered himself, exhausted, with the bed-clothes. 

Still he slept peacefully, and the next day, feeling better, he 
went to visit his journeymen. He found them working bravely, 
keeping the apprentices well along, and laying out the work as 
well as Pierre Huguenin himself. Reassured respecting his un- 
dertaking, reconciled with M. Lerebours, who until then had 
looked sourly upon him, full of hope, he returned to his bed ; 
and soon he was completely recovered to receive his son, who 
arrived three days after in the evening. 

A celestial calmness was depicted upon the brow of Pierre 
Huguenin. His conscience bore him good witness, and his cus- 
tomary gravity was tempered by an inward satisfaction which 
communicated itself as if magnetically to his father. Questioned 
by the latter as to the cause of his delay, he replied : 

“Allow me, my good father, not to enter upon a justification 
which would require time. When you desire it, I will inform you 
of what I have done at Blois ; but now please send me at once to 
my comrades, and be satisfied with the word I give you. Yes, I 
can swear upon my honor that I have only accomplished a duty, 
and that you would have blessed and approved me had your eye 
been upon me.” 

“Well, you answer me as you choose,” said the old joiner; 
“ and there are .moments when you persuade me that you are the 
father and I the son. It is singular, nevertheless, but so it is.” 

He was so well on that day, that he could sup with his son, the 
two journeymen and the apprentices. He felt a predilection for 
Amaury, whose gentleness and respectful attention charmed him ; 
and though he disliked to question him upon certain things, 
he said to himself aside : “ If that is one of those mad companions, 
at least it must be confessed that his face and words are very 
deceitful.” He also began to change respecting the Berrichon, 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


157 


and to recognise excellent qualities under that rough covering. 
His oddities made him laugh, and he was not displeased to have 
some one to scold and laugh at ; for he had, as may have been 
seen, the teasing character of active people ; and the habitual 
dignity of his son and of the Corinthian rather restrained him. 

That evening, when the Berrichon had appeased his first hunger, 
which was always impetuous, he opened the conversation, with 
his mouth full and his elbow on the table. 

“ Comrade,” said he to the Corinthian, “ why don’t you want 
me to tell master Pierre what took place respecting him with that 
great booby of a Polydore, Theodore, I don’t know what you call 
him — the steward’s boy.” 

Amaury, dissatisfied with this indiscretion, shrugged his shoul- 
ders and did not answer. But father Huguenin was not disposed 
to let the Berrichon’s chat fall unheeded. 

“ My dear Amaury,” said he, “ I advise you not to have any 
secrets in common with that youth. He is as fine and light as a 
large beam which should fall on your toes.” 

“ Come,” said Pierre Huguenin, “ since he has begun, we must 
let him finish. I see that he refers to M. Isidore Lerebours. How 
can you imagine, Amaury, that I care for what he may have 
said against me ! I must be very weak-minded to fear his 
judgment.” 

“ Ah ! well ; in that case I will tell you ; yes, I will tell you, 
master Pierre !” cried the Berrichon, winking at Amaury, as if 
to beg him not to close his mouth. 

The Corinthian made a sign that he could speak, and he began 
his recital in these terms : 

“ In the first place, there was a beautiful lady, a superb woman, 
faith, quite small and rosy cheeked, who passed and repassed, and 
again passed, and again repassed, as if to look at our work ; but, 
as true as I bite my bread, it was to look at the pays Corin- 
thian—” 

“ What does he mean with his pays and his Corinthian ?” asked 
father Huguenin, before whom they had agreed never to use their 
companionship names. 

Pierre trod rather heavily upon the foot of the Berrichon, who 
made a horrible face and resumed at once : 


158 


THE COMPANION 


“ When I say the pays, it is as if I said the friend, the comrade, 
we are pays, he and I : he is from Nantes in Brittany, and I am 
from Nohant-vic in Berry.” 

“Very well !” said father Huguenin holding his sides with 
laughter. 

“And when I say the Corinthian,” pursued the Berrichon, 
whose foot was still trod upon, “it is a name which I amuse 
myself in giving him — ” 

“In fine that lady looked at Amaury ?” said father Huguenin. 

“ What lady ?” asked Pierre, who, without knowing why, began 
to listen with attention. 

“ A great, beautiful lady, quite small, as he has told you,” re- 
plied Amaury laughing ; “ but I do not know her.” 

“ If she is rosy-cheeked,” objected father Huguenin, “ it is not 
mademoiselle de Villepreux, for she is pale as a corpse. Per- 
haps it was her chamber-maid ?” 

“ Ah ! perhaps it was,” replied the Berrichon, “ for they called 
her madam.” 

“ Then she was not alone in looking at you ?” asked Pierre. 

“ Quite alone,” replied Clef-des-coeura ; “ but M. Colidor, who 
was with her — ” 

“ Isidore !” interrupted father Huguenin in a loud voice to dis- 
concert him. 

“ Yes, Theodore,” continued the Berrichon, who had his malice 
as well as another. “Well ! that M. Molitor said to her some- 
thing like this: ‘Is there anything for your service, madam 
marchioness?’ ” 

“ Ah ! then it was the niece, the little lady des Frenays,” 
observed father Huguenin. “ She is not proud and looks at 
everybody — did she look at Amaury, really ?” 

“ As I look at you !” cried the Berrichon. 

“ Oh no ! not exactly !” replied the old joiner, laughing at the 
Berrichon’s ugly stare. “ And at last she spoke to you ?” 

“ No no ! she only said : ‘ I am looking for the little dog ; 
haven’t you seen him about here, gentlemen joiners?’ And she 
looked at the pays — the comrade Amaury ; zounds ! she looked 
at him as if she wanted to eat him with her eyes !” 

“ Pooh ! stupid ! it was you she looked at !” said Amaury. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


159 


“ You may as well confess that : it isn’t your fault that you are 
handsome.” 

“ Oh ! as to that, you are laughing at me,” replied the 
Berrichon. “Never did any kind of woman look at me, rich 
or poor, young or old, except the mother — I mean the Savinienne, 
before she was in tears for her dead husband.” 

“ She looked at you ?” cried Amaury blushing. 

“ Yes, in pity,” replied the Berrichon, who was not wanting in 
good sense as regarded personal matters ; “ and she often said to 
me : ‘ My poor Berrichon, you have such an odd nose and such 
an odd mouth ! was it your father or your mother who had that 
nose and that mouth V ” 

“ Well, the story of the lady ?” resumed father Huguenin. 

“ The story is finished,” replied the Berrichon. “ She went 
out as she came in, and M. Hippolyte — ” 

“ M. Isidore !” interrupted the obstinate father Huguenin. 

“ As you please,” returned the Berrichon. “ His name is no 
handsomer than my nose. And so, he placed himself beside us 
with arms folded like the emperor Napoleon holding his spy- 
glass ; and then he began to say that we were making poor work, 
miserable work, what ! And then suddenly the pays — the com- 
rade Amaury did not answer him, and then, at once, I — I con- 
tinued sawing my boards without saying anything. That was 
what vexed him, the gentleman ! Doubtless he would have 
wished us to ask him why the work did not please him. Then 
he took up a piece and said it was bad stock, that the wood was 
already cracked, and that, if that should fall, that would break 
like a glass. And then, the Corinthian (excuse me, our master, 
it is a customary I have to call him like that), the Corinthian, that 
I say, answered him : ‘ Try it then, citizen, if your heart tells 
you so.’ And then, he threw the piece to the ground with all 
his strength ; and then, it happened that it did not break, without 
which I should have broken his head with my hammer.” 

“ Is that all ?” asked Pierre Huguenin. 

“ Do not you consider it enough, master Pierre ? excuse me !” 
said the Berrichon. 

“ I, I consider it too much,” said father Huguenin, who had 


160 


THE COMPANION 


become thoughtful. “You see, Pierre, I told you so; Lere- 
bours’s son wishes you ill, and will do you an injury.” 

“We shall see,” replied Pierre. 

In fact, Isidore Lerebours, having learnt in what manner 
Pierre Huguenin had criticised and remodelled his plan for the 
staircase, nourished a deep spite against him. The^day before, he 
had dined at the chateau, at the table of the count de Villepreux ; 
for it was Sunday, and on that day the count invited M. Lerebours 
and his son, with the curate, the mayor, and the schoolmaster. 
The count’s system was, that there are always in a village four 
or five individuals over whom it is necessary to retain an influ- 
ence, and who are more bound by the politeness of a good dinner 
than by justice and good reasons. M. Isidore was very vain of 
this privilege. He carried to the chateau the splendor of his 
most ridiculous toilettes, broke each time more or less goblets 
and glasses, smelt of the best wines with the air of a connoisseur, 
always received from the master some good lesson by which he 
did not know how to profit, and permitted himself to stare quite 
impudently at the pretty marchioness des Frenays. 

This first Sunday presented itself quite apropos to satisfy Isi- 
dore’s vengeance. Naturally, while the count played, after din- 
ner, his hundred points of piquet with the curate, the conversa- 
tion turned upon the repairs of the chapel, and the old count 
asked his steward if they had been resumed. 

“ Yes, sir count,” replied M. Lerebours. “ Four mechanics 
are on the job, and at work even to-day.” 

“ In spite of its being Sunday ?” observed the curate. 

“ You will give them absolution, curate,” said the count. 

“ I fear,” then said Isidore, who waited impatiently for the 
moment to put in his word, “ that sir count will by no means be 
satisfied with the work they do. They use wood which is not 
dry enough, and don’t understand their business. Old Huguenin 
is not unskilful, but he is wounded. His son is a downright 
blockhead, a village lawyer, an ass, in one word.” 

“ Let the asses alone, then,” said the count, quietly shuffling 
his cards ; “ we are not thinking of them.” 

“ Would sir count permit me to say that that stupid fellow is 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


161 


not fit for the work which has been intrusted to him. He is at 
best good only to split logs.” 

“ In that case you would not be safe,” replied the count, who, 
in his way, was as much of a joker as the elder Huguenin. 
“ But who, then, selected that workman ? was it not your fa- 
ther ?” 

M. Lerebours was at the other end of the apartment, lost in 
flattering exclamations respecting the tapestry which madame 
des Frenays was embroidering, and not hearing his son’s insinu- 
ations against Pierre Huguenin. 

“ My father has been deceived about that man,” replied Isi- 
dore, in a low voice. “ He had heard him praised. He thought 
he was doing well in paying him less than a man of talent who 
could have been brought from elsewhere. But it is an error ; 
for all that has been done, and all they are allowed to do, will 
have to be begun again. I wish I may lose my name if it does 
not turn out as I say.” 

“ Lose your name !” retorted the count, still playing his cards, 
and openly ridiculing him without his being willing to perceive 
it ; “ that would be a great loss. If I had the good fortune to be 
called Isidore Lerebours, I would not take such a risk.” 

The marchioness des Frenays, whom M. Lerebours greatly 
wearied with ms compliments, took part in the conversation with 
a sweet and flute-like voice. 

“ You are very severe, M. Isidore !” said she, in her childish 
and coquettish style. “ I passed through the library by chance, 
and thought the new wainscotting quite as pretty and well-exe- 
cuted as the old. How beautiful that wainscotting is ! You 
were very right to have it repaired, uncle ; it will be in perfect 
taste, and completely in fashion.” 

“ In fashion ?” cried Isidore, judiciously ; “ it is more than 
three hundred years since it was made.” 

“ Hid you find that out alone ?” said the count. 

“ But it seems to me — ” returned Isidore. 

“ It is the fashion now !” rather angrily interrupted the curate, 
whom Isidore’s chat distracted. “ All the old fashions return. 
But do let us play, M. Isidore.” 

M. Lerebours darted a terrible glance at his son, who, satisfied 


162 


THE COMPANION 


with having struck the first blow at Pierre Huguenin, approached 
the ladies. Mademoiselle Yseult had such an invincible repug- 
nance to him, that she rose and changed her place. Madame 
des Frenays, less delicate in her nerves, did not refuse to enter 
into conversation with the employe aux ponts-et-chaussees. She 
questioned him about the library, and about that Pierre Huguenin 
of whom he spoke so ill ; at last she asked him which among the 
workmen whom she had seen that morning, as she crossed the 
workshop, was Pierre Huguenin. There was one who seemed 
to me to have a very remarkable face,” said she, with great in- 
genuousness. 

“ Pierre Huguenin was not there,” replied Isidore, “ and the 
one to whom you refer is a journeyman. I don’t know his name, 
but he has an odd surname.” 

“ Ah ! really ? Tell me, then, it will amuse me.” 

“ His comrade calls him the Corinthian.” 

“ The Corinthian ! Oh ! how pretty that is. But why ? 
What does that mean ?” 

“ Those people have all sorts of nicknames. The other is 
called la-Clef-des-coBurs.” 

“ Oh ! what a good joke ! But that is because he is so horri- 
ble ! I have never seen any one so ugly !” % 

Any other than Isidore would have remarked that, for a mar- 
chioness, madame des Frenays had looked rather too much at the 
workmen in the library, and that she by no means at this mo- 
ment justified the saying of Labruyere : “ Only to nuns is a 
gardener a man.” But Isidore, who knew that the marchioness 
was rather coquettish, and thought himself very agreeable, limit- 
ed himself to thinking that she said nothings, and that she pre- 
tended to take an interest in them, in order to retain him by her 
side and enjoy his conversation. 

The marchioness des Frenays, born Josephine Clicot, and 
daughter of a provincial woollen manufacturer, had been married 
very young to the marquis des Frenays, M. de Villepreux’s 
nephew. This marquis was a very good gentleman of Tou- 
raine, so far as a noble, but a very sad personage as an individual. 
He had served under the empire ; but, as he had small talent 
and no good conduct, he had never left the secondary grades, 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


163 


where he had quite grossly consumed his patrimony. In the 
hundred days, he had not known how to take either a skilful or 
a Courageous part ; that is, he had betrayed the fortunes of the 
emperor too late, and had not known how to secure either the 
profit of desertion or the merit of fidelity. He had then fallen 
back upon the count de Villepreux, who, finding his society 
rather troublesome, and his debts rather frequent, had thought 
to rid himself of them, to the advantage of the Clicot family, by 
making him marry the rich heiress Josephine. The Clicots 
knew very well beforehand that the marquis was neither hand- 
some, nor young, nor amiable ; that his morals were as much 
disordered as his fortune ; in a word, that his wife would have 
no chance of happiness, nor of real consideration ; but an alli- 
ance with the family, as M. Lerebours said very well, had 
turned their heads, and the little Clicot was consoled for every- 
thing by the title of marchioness. 

A few years were enough to disenchant her ; the marquis 
soon consumed his wife’s dowry in a frivolous manner. The Cli- 
cots, wishing to save to the latter some resources for the future, 
offered an amicable separation, settled a pension of six thousand 
francs on the husband, on condition that he should live in Paris, 
or abroad, and took back their daughter. The mother Clicot 
having died during this arrangement, the father had again en- 
gaged in business, in order to repair the breach made in his 
fortune ; and Josephine went to live with him and two old aunts, 
in a large very ordinary country-house, adjoining the manufac- 
tory, on the banks of the Loiret, some leagues from Villepreux. 

In the midst of the uninteresting and inelegant noise and 
movement of industrial life, surrounded by very prosaic people, 
and condemned to an austere existence (for her relatives kept 
her as strictly as if she were still a little girl), poor Josephine 
became mortally ennuyeed. She had rapidly seen a corner of 
the great world, and had there acquired an immoderate thirst for 
elegant life and frivolous excitement. During one or two years, 
she had had at Paris a carriage, beautiful apartments, a box at 
, the opera, an encirclement of fops, of marchandes de modes, of 
sempstresses and perfumers. Banished suddenly to a smoky 
and bad-smelling factory, surrounded by workmen or superin- 


164 


THE COMPANION 


tendents, of better intentions than manners, hearing only of 
wools, trades, wages, dyes, prices current, and stocks, she had 
no other resource against despair but to read novels in the eve- 
ning, and sleep a part of the day, while her beautiful dresses, her 
plumes and laces, last remains of an extinct luxury, grew yel- 
low in their boxes, vainly awaiting an opportunity to see the 
light again. Josephine had received a miserable education. 
Her mother was ignorant and vain of her money ; her father 
had no other care or business but to amass money : their daugh- 
ter had no other desire or faculty but to spend money. She was 
fit for nothing when she no longer had ornaments to arrange, or 
a party of pleasure to project. She was twenty at most, and 
perfectly pretty, but of that beauty which speaks rather to the 
eyes than the mind. No longer knowing, therefore, what to do 
with her youth, her beauty, and her trinkets, her imagination, 
vivid and charming as her face and nature, had taken its flight 
in the world of romances. In her solitude she created for herself 
wonderful adventures and conquests ; but compelled to fall back 
into reality, she was only the more to be pitied. The melan- 
choly which had seized upon her suggested to her aunts the 
dangerous precaution of confining her as much as possible ; and 
Josephine’s poor head, shut up in the industrial chauldron, 
threatened to burst, when an unexpected event changed her lot. 

The father Clicot fell dangerously ill, and, touched by the 
tender cares bestowed on him by his daughter, wounded at the 
same time by the sordid views betrayed by his sisters, he conspired 
against the latter on leaving them. He secured to them a com- 
petency ; but he abolished their authority by calling to his death- 
bed the count de Villepreux, and placing Josephine and her pro- 
perty under his protection. The count indeed felt that, having 
caused the poor young woman’s unhappiness by uniting her to 
his scamp of a nephew, he had heavy wrongs to repair with 
regard to her. He understood his duty, and, having assisted her 
to close her father’s eyes, he declared himself her substituted 
guardian until she should attain her majority, which was not far off. 
He caused the will to be executed, assembled the family council, 
expelled the old aunts from the manufactory, according to the 
desire of the deceased, intrusted its management to a skilful and 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


165 


honest superintendent ; then he took the marchioness into his 
own family, and treated her with paternal affection, the first act 
of which was to notify the marquis des Frenays that he should- 
cause the separation agreed upon to be respected, and, in case 
of need, would protect his wife against him. 

This praiseworthy conduct excited against M. de Villepreux 
that branch of the family to which the marquis des Frenays 
belonged. That branch was ultra-royalist, ruined, jealous, and 
accused the old count with being rapacious, avaricious, and a 
jacobin. 

Josephine, rescued from all her persecutors and all her tyrants, 
at last began to breathe. At first the sweet and cordial intimacy 
of her uncle, the delicate friendship of Yseult, the benevolent 
tranquillity of their manners and customs, seemed to her para- 
dise after hell. But that excited brain would have required 
rather more movement, either in dissipation or in adventures, than 
was presented by the peaceful and orderly life of the old count. 
Yseult also was rather a serious companion for the romantic Jo- 
sephine. Already accustomed to isolate herself from those 
about her, and to construct a world of chimeras in the secret of 
her thoughts, she pretended, therefore, to be in unison with the 
family, and resumed the customary course of her sentimental 
reveries without communicating them to any one. 


166 


THE COMPANION 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Courage had returned to the heart of Pierre Huguenin. The 
chapel appeared to him more beautiful than when he first entered 
it. The recovery of his father, the sweet society and precious 
assistance of his dear Corinthian, added to his happiness. He 
took his chisel, and with a fresh and clear voice sang the song 
upon the joiner’s art. 

Notre art a puise sa richesse 
Dans les temples de 1’ Eternel. 

II a pris son droit de noblesse 
En posant son sceau sur l’autel.* 

Then, before striking the first blow with his chisel, he em- 
braced his father, clasped the Corinthian’s hand, and applied 
himself to work with ardor. The Berrichon shook his head. 

“ And for me nothing at all,” said he with a sad good-natured 
manner. 

“ For you also the heart and the hand,” said Pierre, pressing 
his horny palm. 

The Berrichon, recovering his joy, made a cross with his 
chisel upon the wood he was about to cut, according to the an- 
cient Christian custom of his country, and began to sing in his 
turn a song of Angevine la Sagesse, one of the brave poets of the 
tour of France. Father Huguenin, his arm in a scarf, followed 
them with smiling eyes. At this moment the count de Villepreux, 

* Our art has acquired its riches 
In the temples of the Eternal. 

It has taken its noble birthright 
By placing its seal upon the altar.* 

* The square, symbol of labor, which is also the emblem of the symbolical triangle of 
the divine Trinity. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


167 


entered, accompanied by his grand-daughter, .the marchioness des 
Frenays and M. Lerebours. 

The count, suffering with the gout, supported his steps on one 
side by a crutch-cane, on the other by the arm of Yseult, who 
faithfully accompanied him in all his landlord’s walks. M. Lere- 
bours had taken the risk of offering his arm to Josephine, who 
had accepted it with a graceful resignation. The count stopped 
at the entrance of the library to listen with curiosity to the Ber- 
richon’s song : 


Away with melancholy 
Nor doleful changes ring; 

For us the past is nothing now* 

The future naught can bring. 

“ The rhyme is not rich,” said the count to his daughter, “but 
the idea says much.” 

They approached without being seen. The noise of the saw 
and the plane covered that of their steps and voices. 

“ Which of all those is Pierre Huguenin ?” asked the mar- 
chioness of the steward. 

“ The tallest and strongest of them all,” replied M. Lerebours. 

The marchioness looked alternately from the Corinthian to 
l’Ami-du-trait, not knowing which was the handsomer, he who 
resembled an antique huntsman with his manly air and elegant 
strength, or the other who recalled young Raphael with his pen- 
sive grace, his paleness, and his long hair. 

The old count, who had the taste and the feeling of the beauti- 
ful, was also struck by that noble trio of Greek heads, which was 
completed by the father Huguenin, with his broad forehead, his 
silvery locks, the marked lines of his profile, and his eye full of 
fire. 

“ They say the people are not handsome in France,” said he 
to his grand-daughter, extending his crutch as if to make her 
notice a picture, “yet those are specimens of a noble race.” 

The elder Huguenin, who was not working, approached the 
noble visitors with a frank politeness. The aspect of the count 
was truly venerable, and whoever saw him was compelled to 
abjure in his presence every democratic prejudice. The count 


168 


THE COMPANION 


saluted him by taking off his cap entirely and bowing very low, 
as if he were saluting a duke and peer. He had not followed the 
manner of those insolent rou6s of the regency, who, by becom- 
ing familiar with the populace, had made it familiar with them ; 
he had received and retained the healthy traditions of the great 
lords of Louis XIV., who, by an admirable politeness, conse- 
crated in petto the inferiority of the people. The old count in- 
troduced a new feeling into this civility long since acquired ; he 
had recollections of the revolution which made him accept, half 
ironically, half frankly, the principle of equality ; he himself 
said that, every time he met a man of the people, he murmured 
aside this formula-: “Sovereign people, you wish to be saluted.” 

He first inquired respecting the old joiner’s wound, and oblig- 
ingly said that he was very sorry he had met with that accident 
while working for him. 

“ The fact was, I was going rather too fast,” replied the elder 
Huguenin ; “ one should not be harebrained at my age; but M. 
Lerebours hurried me so much that, to satisfy M. the count., I 
struck furious blows upon the wood ; and I found that my chisel 
was sharp when it cut into my old skin, which is almost as hard 
as old oak.” 

“ Then you make me out very wicked, M. Lerebours,” said 
the count, turning towards his intendant. “And yet I have 
never maimed any one as I remember.” 

Pierre Huguenin, motionless, with head uncovered and swell- 
ing chest, looked upon mademoiselle Villepreux with an indefin- 
able emotion. He had remembered, simply on hearing her men- 
tioned, his watchings in her study, and the species of worship 
he had paid to the unknown divinity of that sanctuary. He was 
troubled in her presence, as if a mysterious bond was to be 
strengthened or broken at this first interview. He was at first 
astonished not to find her so beautiful as he had created her. 
She was, in fact, more distinguee than pretty. Her features were 
fine, her brow pure and well designed, her head elegant and of 
a beautiful oval ; but there was nothing great or striking in her 
person. She absolutely wanted brilliancy. Still, on looking at 
her carefully, one could see that she disdained to show it ; for 
her small black eye could be animated, her mouth smile, and all 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


169 


her frail person unveil the hidden grace that was in her. But it 
was as if she had determined to despise the labor of attraction. 
She was always dressed accordingly ; her dresses were dark 
and without any ornament, and her hair divided in smooth bands 
upon her forehead. With this stiffness of aspect and intention, 
she had a very penetrating charm for whomsoever knew how to 
understand her ; but this was impossible at first sight, and at all 
times quite difficult. 

Pierre Huguenin examined her ; but suddenly he met her 
glance. That glance was almost bold, so indifferent and calm 
was it. Pierre blushed, turned aside his eyes and felt a weight of 
ice fall on his imagination : not that he found the heroine of the tur- 
ret disagreeable or repulsive, but this strange gravity in so young 
a girl destroyed all his notions and deranged all his dreams. He 
did not know if he ought to consider her as a sick child, or as an 
organization for ever struck with apathy and languor. And then 
he said to himself that he should never know her better, that per- 
haps he should not see her again, that he should have no oppor- 
tunity to exchange a second glance with her ; and he felt sad, as 
if he had lost the protection of some ideal power on which he had 
depended without knowing it. 

In the meanwhile the count had approached the work. He 
examined attentively all its parts : 

“ This is perfectly well executed,” said he, “ and I cannot help 
praising you ; but are you very sure, messieurs, of the quality 
of your wood ?” 

“ Certainly it is not so good,” replied Pierre, “ as that of the 
old wainscotting. In two hundred years it will be good, and the 
old will perhaps be no longer so. But I can guarantee that mine 
will not warp so as to injure the effect. If a board contracts, if 
a panel splits, which is not probable, I will repair it at my own 
expense and before the eye can have been shocked by it.” 

“ But if you should be deceived entirely as to the quality of 
the stock ?” said the count ; “ if the whole work had to be 
renewed?” 

“ I would renew it at my own cost, and would engage to furnish 
better wood,” replied Pierre. 

“ In that case,” said the count, turning to his daughter as if to 
9 


170 


THE COMPANION 


take her to witness, “ I believe that we must have confidence and 
trust in the conscience and talent of these people. Certainly, you 
work very well, messieurs, and I should not have thought that the 
ancient models could have been reproduced so faithfully. ”• 

“ There is but small merit in that,” replied Pierre ; “ it is only 
the labor of an attentive and docile mechanic. But he who 
designed the model was an artist. He had the taste, the inven- 
tion, the feeling, now lost, of elegant and simple proportion.” 

The count’s eyes sparkled, and he struck lightly on the ground 
with his cane, which was in him an indication of surprise and 
inward satisfaction. Father Huguenin knew this well and he 
remarked it. 

“ But it is being an artist to understand and express it as you 
do !” said the count. 

“We all take that title,” replied Pierre, “ but we do not 
deserve it. Still,” added he, pointing at Amaury, “ there is an 
artist. He practises joinery as it now is, because he must earn 
his livelihood ; but he could invent as beautiful things as there 
are here. If there were in the chateau any apartment to be 
decorated, you might consult the designs he has made in leisure 
moments for his amusement, and would there find models which 
connoisseurs could not criticise.” 

“ Really ?” said the count looking at Amaury, who, by no 
means expecting this discovery, blushed to the white of his eyes. 
“ Is he your brother ?” 

“ No, M. the count ; but he is just the same,” replied Pierre. 

“ Well, we will profit by his talents, and by your’s also, sir. 
Delighted to know you ! I am your servant.” 

And the count having saluted him with politeness, and even 
with a certain deference, withdrew, wondering in a low tone, 
with his grand-daughter, at the good sense and modesty of Pierre 
Huguenin’s replies. 

The first person they met on leaving the library was Isidore, 
who, having watched for the moment, there awaited the effect 
which his accusation might have produced. He did not know 
that the old count, having the instinct and the taste of what the 
phrenologists nowadays call constructiveness, understood much 
better than he how to judge of the labors of a workshop, and that 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


171 


it was not easy to lead him into an error. He had depended 
upon the rough vivacity which he knew he had, and upon the 
rather irascible pride of father Huguenin. He had hoped that 
the one would express a doubt and that the other would reply 
without respect or moderation. The count, who had that morn- 
ing caused his architect to relate to him the adventure of the 
staircase plan, now understood very well Isidore’s conduct and 
perfectly despised it. 

“ I am very well satisfied with what I have just seen,” said he 
to him, raising his voice and looking him directly in the face with 
a severe air ; “ those are good workmen, and I thank your father 
much for having employed them. Who was it then that said, 
last evening, that they were poor workmen ? Was it my archi- 
tect ? Was it not you, Isidore ?” 

“ I do not think the architect could have said that,” replied 
M. Lerebours ; “ for he is well pleased with the work of the 
Huguenins.” 

“ Then it must have been he !” said the count, maliciously 
pointing at Isidore. 

“ My son has not seen what they are doing ; besides, he under- 
stands nothing about it. The sciences he has studied are of a 
higher order, and the proverb which says : ‘ He who can do the 
greater, can do the less,’ is not always true. But who can have 
sought to prejudice the count against my workmen ? It must 
have been the curate ; he feels sore with me because I beat him 
at billiards.” 

u It must have been the curate,” replied the count, “ he is a 
meddler. The first time we see him, we will tell him to mind 
his own business.” 

Isidore did not take the lesson. He thought that the count 
remembered badly, and promised himself that he would profit by 
it to return to the charge. He was of that race of people who 
cannot be convicted of error in their own eyes ; consequently, he 
was persuaded that his plan of the staircase was good and that 
Pierre’s was faulty. He was naively astonished at the partiality 
which the architect had shown in his decision, and he awaited his 
adversary at the work to humiliate him. In vain had the pru- 
dent author of his days advised him not to boast of a defeat which 


172 


THE COMPANION 


would be forgotten or passed over in silence ; Isidore pretended 
to take his advice, but he none the less cherished the project of 
revenging himself! 

That evening, in the middle of the Huguenins’ supper, a 
domestic of the chateau came to request Pierre to visit the count. 
This message was transmitted with a politeness which struck 
father Lacrete, present at the supper. 

“ Never have I seen these lackeys so honest,” said he in a 
low voice to his gossip. 

“ I assure you that my son has something singular about him,” 
replied father Huguenin in the same tone. “ He commands the 
respect of everybody.” 

Pierre had gone up to his chamber, tie came down again 
dressed and combed as if it were Sunday. His father had an 
inclination to joke with him ; he did not dare to. 

“ Excuse !” said the Berrichon, as soon as Pierre had left to 
go to the chateau. “ He has made himself brave, our young 
master ! If he goes on in that way, take care of yourself, pays 
Corinthian ! the little baroness will not look at you any more.” 

“You have joked enough upon that subject,” said father 
Huguenin in a severe tone. “ Idle talk always does harm, and 
such as that might injure my son. If you do not like it, my 
Amaury, you will not allow it to continue.” 

“ Idle words displease me as much as they do you, my master,” 
replied the Corinthian. “ So, Berrichon, we will say no more of 
that, will we, friend ?” 

“ Enough said,” returned la Clef-de-cceurs. “ My business, for 
me, is to make people laugh. When they will laugh no longer — ” 

“We know that you have wit, my boy,” said father Hugue- 
nin. “ You will make us laugh about something else.” 

“ No matter,” said the Berrichon, “ those people of the cha- 
teau please me. They’re not at all proud, they’re genteel like 
everything, those noble ladies !” 

When Pierre saw open before him the door of M. de Ville- 
preux’ study, he felt seized by a horrible uneasiness. He had 
never conversed with persons placed so high in social life. The 
citizens with whom he had business had never intimidated him ; 
he had always felt himself their equal, even in manners. But 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


173 


he said to himself that there was, doubtless, in the old lord, some 
other superiority besides that of rank. He knew that the count 
would be perfectly polite, but according to a code of etiquette to 
which he should be obliged to submit, even if he did not find it 
conformable to his ideas. This code is so strange, that a man 
of the people, who should assume the manners of a man of the 
world, would be considered impertinent. A workman, for 
example, must not bow toQ, low ; this would be demanding a 
similar salute, and he has no right to do so. Pierre had read 
novels and comedies enough to know what were the forms of 
politeness in that world which he had not seen. But what would 
be those forms with him, and how ought he to reply to them ? 
As an equal ? That would make him pass for a fool. As an 
inferior? That would be humiliating himself. This rather 
puerile anxiety would not perhaps have been felt by him, had he 
not distinguished by the light of the lamp, which feebly illumined 
the study, mademoiselle de Villepreux writing under her father’s 
dictation. And all these reflections coming upon him at once, 
oppressed his heart, without his knowing how, and without my 
being very able to tell you why. When he entered, Yseult rose. 
Was it to salute him, or to make room for him ? Pierre bowed, 
without daring to look at her. 

“ Please take a seat, sir,” said the count to him, pointing to a 
chair. 

Pierre was confused, and took a chair covered with books and 
papers. Yseult came to his assistance, by placing another near 
the table, and she withdrew a little. He did not know where 
she seated herself, so much did he fear meeting her eyes. 

“ I ask your pardon for making you come,” said the count ; 
“ but I am too old and too gouty to go anywhere myself. I saw 
this morning, that the repairs of the wainscotting go on very 
fast, and should like to know if you think you could undertake 
to add to it the sculptured ornaments.” 

“ That is not in my line,” replied Pierre ; “ but with the 
assistance of my companion, whom I have seen execute very 
delicate and very difficult ornaments, I think I could copy faith- 
fully those in question.” 

“ So you would be willing to undertake them ?” said the count. 


174 


THE COMPANION 


“ My first intention was to have some carvers in wood come 
for that purpose ; but after what you told me this morning, and 
what I saw of your work, the idea has come to me of intrusting 
to you the sculpture likewise. This is why I wished to see you 
alone, in order not to wound your companion, in case, in your 
conscience, you should consider the work beyond his power.” 

“I believe that you will be satisfied with him, M. the count. 
But I must tell you beforehand, that the work will take a long 
time ; for none of our apprentices can aid us.” 

“Well, you will take the necessary time. Can you promise 
me that you will not allow yourself to be interrupted by other 
work than that of my house ?” 

“ I can, M. the count. But a scruple retains me. Allow me 
to ask if you had cast your eyes upon any carver, in order to 
intrust this work to him ?” 

“ Upon no one. I intended requesting my architect at Paris 
to send me such as he judged fit. But may I ask you, in my 
turn, why you put that question to me ?” 

“ Because it is contrary to the practice of our trade, and, I 
think, to delicacy in general, to undertake a job which is out of 
our usual line, when we find ourselves in competition with those 
to whom it exclusively belongs. This would be encroaching 
upon the rights of others, and depriving workmen of a profit 
which naturally falls to them rather than to us.” 

“ The scruple is an honest one, and does not astonish me in 
you,” replied the count. “ But you may be satisfied that I had 
spoken to no one, and besides, my will ought to have free 
action in this respect. My expenses would be much increased 
by bringing in workmen who do not belong to the province. 
Let this be a reason for you, if you require one. For myself, I 
have another ; it is the pleasure of intrusting to you a work 
which must gratify you, and of which you feel the beauty so 
sensibly.” 

“ Still I will not begin,” replied Pierre, “ before submitting to 
you a specimen of our skill, in order that you may change 
your determination if we do not succeed well.” 

“ Could you bring it to me in a few days ?” 

" I think so, M. the count.” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


175 


“ And I,” said mademoiselle de Villepreux, “ might I make a 
request of you, M. Pierre ?” 

Pierre started in his chair on hearing that voice address him. 
He had thought that if such a thing could happen, it would be 
under the influence of strange and romantic circumstances. 
That which is entirely natural never satisfies an excited imagi- 
nation. He bowed without being able to say a word. 

“ That would be,” resumed Yseult, “ to replace the door of 
my study, which M. Lerebours has already asked you for seve- 
ral times, and which has been lost, as he pretends. You will do 
me a great pleasure by having it sought for and replaced, in 
whatever condition it may be.” 

“ Apropos, that is true !” said the count. “ She loves her 
study, and can no longer sit there.” 

“ It shall be done to-morrow,” replied Pierre. 

And he retired entirely overpowered, quite terrified at the sad- 
ness which again seized upon him. 

“ I am a fool,” said he to himself, as he resumed the road to 
his home. “ That door shall be replaced to-morrow : it must 
be so ; it must be closed for ever between her and me.” 


176 


THE COMPANION 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

When Pierre, who, at home, as while travelling, shared his bed 
with Amaury, after the manner of ancient brothers-in-arms, 
related to his friend the proposition which the count had made to 
him, a vivid feeling of hope and joy took possession of the young 
artist. He had always felt that the delicate skill of his hand 
and the exquisite taste of his ideas led him towards sculpture ; 
but, having begun the trade of a joiner, and being affiliated to a 
companionship of that profession, he had feared to retard himself 
in his career by entering upon a new path. Encouragement 
had been wanting. Pierre was the only one who advised him to 
go to Paris and obtain instruction in his favorite art. But at that 
period the Corinthian was kept at Blois by his love for the Savi- 
nienne. He had, therefore, given up his dream, and had brought 
down his pretensions to the ornaments which belong to joinery in 
building. By the acknowledgment of all the companions, he 
excelled in the difficult part of ornamented caps to niches, and no 
one could cut like him the light leaves of a Greek capital. It 
was especially on this account that they had conferred on him 
the elegant surname he bore. 

“ Ah ! my friend,” cried he, “ fate is good to send this diver- 
sion to my sorrow ! I have not had the strength to tell you my 
admiration for that beautiful wainscotting, and the effect it pro- 
duced on me the first time I saw it. At first, I admired very 
much that beautiful distribution and that wisdom of plan of 
which you spoke to me at Blois. I remarked the character of 
breadth which is felt in the details of the smallest dimension. 
Yes, I understood what you formerly explained to me, that gran- 
deur is not in extent,' but in proportion ; and that one may make 
meanly a colossus of architecture, while an appearance of height 
and strength can be given to a model of a few inches. But I 
confess to you, that on looking at those arabesques distributed 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


177 


with so much richness and moderation at the same time (for this 
is still the same question : small means, great effect), when I saw 
those medallions encrusted in the pannels, and displaying, as 
from a window, those beautiful little heads of saints, with their 
varying expressions and dresses ; some grave like old philoso- 
phers — others laughing and mocking like waggish monks ; here 
a proud soldier with his casque crushed over his eyes, there a 
pretty female saint crowned with flowers and pearls ; below, a 
beautiful seraph with curling and flowing hair ; elsewhere, an 
old half-veiled sybil, extending her thin and angular neck ; and 
around all this, birds playing among the garlands of flowers, 
infernal monsters pursuing lost souls through a netting of ivy 
leaves, and those great heads of lions which seem to growl at all 1 
the angles, and all those bas-reliefs, all those figurantes, all those 
festoons, and all that movement of different beings who seem to 
live, run, fly, dance, sing, or meditate, upon the inanimate wood — 
Oh ! at the sight of all these wonders of a time when art ennobled 
handiwork, I felt myself transported into another world, and big 
tears were ready to flow from my eyes. Happy, thrice happy, 
thought I, the workman who could at his will animate these 
shreds of his own life, and bring forth, from the rough sides of 
the oak, the cherished people of his dreams ! And, as the shades 
of evening began to fall, I fancied that I saw move around me 
legions of little phantoms, who went climbing upon the pannels, 
hanging upon the cornices, and contending with the ancient crea- 
tions of the artist. The archangels blowed their trumpets ; the 
capital sins, fantastic monsters, foraged in the spiry acanthus ; 
and the beautiful Christian virgins played among the quiet lilies, 
while the prevaricating monks, wine-bibbing satyrs, pulled the 
beards of the grave theologians. I was intoxicated myself, — I 
was mad. The more I tried to recover my senses, the more my 
vision increased and became animated around my burning tem- 
ples. It seemed to me that all those demon’s, all those imps, 
issued from my head, from my hands, from my pockets. I was 
about to run after them, trying to catch them, to put them 
in order, to encrust them in the wood, respectful and mute in the 
empty places and in the abandoned niches which time had hol- 
lowed for them by the side of their ancestors, when the Berrichon’s 
9 * 


178 


THE COMPANION 


voice tore me from my hallucination. He drew me away, put- 
ting upon my shoulder my saw and my plane, coarse tools of a 
still coarser labor. I resigned myself ; I worked according to 
my duty, not according to my vocation. And now you see, 
Pierre, that dream was as a prophetic foreshadowing of my 
happy destiny. Now I shall be able to say in my turn : ‘ And I 
also am an artist !’ I shall make sculptures, I shall create beings, 
I shall give life ! and my imagination, which made me suffer, 
will give me joy and power !” 

The Corinthian’s delirium caused his friend some surprise. 
Pierre did not yet know all the exultation of that young head, 
which had read many books, and cherished many golden dreams 
in its travels. He embraced him with an admiration mingled 
with tenderness, and requested him to become calm in order that 
he might take some rest. But the Corinthian could not sleep, 
and he rose before daylight. He did not think of breakfasting ; 
and when his friend reached the workshop, he found him busy 
carving a figure. 

“ I have begun with the most difficult,” said he, “ because I 
am not anxious about the rest. But will this head succeed ? I 
know very well that it will not resemble the model exactly. But 
provided it has truth, expression, and grace, it will be worthy to 
remain. What I admire in this wainscotting, is that there are 
no two ornaments or two figures alike. It is infinite variety and 
caprice in harmony and regularity. Oh ! my friend, may I be 
able to find beauty, I also ! May I be able to bring to light what 
I have in my soul, and produce what I feel !” 

“ But where have you learnt the art of design ?” asked Pierre, 
astonished at seeing a human head come from under the Corin- 
thian’s chisel. 

“Nowhere and everywhere,” replied the young man. “I 
have always been impelled by an irresistible instinct towards 
statues and bas-reliefs. I have never passed before a monument 
without stopping for a long time to look at all the ornaments and 
all the sculptures. But it is in the museums of great cities that 
I have hidden long contemplations, and tasted delights of which I 
have never dared to speak to any one. We all go to see those 
collections, as we go to see sights of new strange things. We 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


179 


obtain there some notions of history, of mythology and allegory ; 
but the greater part of us go to satisfy a curiosity without object, 
and I can say that I went to satisfy a passion. I have even made 
some drawings from the models. At Arles, I tried to copy the 
antique Venus, and I took the outlines of some vases and sarco- 
phaguses, which I dreamt of executing in wood and placing as 
ornaments in some parts of the decoration. But could I know 
what I did ? And do I now know what I have done ? Gross 
caricatures, perhaps. I have calculated the proportions geo- 
metrically ; but grace, delicacy, movement — beauty, in one word ! 
— who will tell me if my hand obeyed my thought ? Who will 
prove to me that my eyes did not deceive me when they thought 
they again found upon the paper what they had discovered and 
observed in the stone and marble ? I move in a chaos, in no- 
thingness, perhaps ! I have seen children draw upon a wall gro- 
tesque, impossible faces, which they thought conformable to the 
laws of nature ; they deceived themselves, and were satisfied 
with their work. But I have seen other children trace natural- 
ly, and as if obeying a mysterious faculty, faces which were 
animated, attitudes which were true, bodies which were well 
balanced, well proportioned. They did not know that they had 
done better than the others ! And I, in what class must I range 
myself ? I do not know. Could you not tell me, oh ! my poor 
Pierre V ’ 

Talking thus, the Corinthian worked with ardor ; his eyes 
were brilliant and moist, his brow was bathed in sweat. He felt 
a delicious and terrible anguish in the depths of his soul. Pierre 
shared it. When the figure was finished, Amaury, seeing father 
Huguenin and the apprentices coming, wiped his forehead, and 
hid in a corner his work and the tools he had used. He feared 
the judgment of ignorance, and being discouraged by some rail- 
lery. He did not even wish to examine in secret what he had 
done, for fear of perceiving his want of power, and losing too 
soon his hope full of delight. When the workmen left at noon 
for their luncheon, he did not follow them, but asked Pierre Hu- 
guenin to go and get for him a piece of bread. But when the 
latter brought it, he did not even think of touching it. 

“ Pierre !” cried he, “ I think I have succeeded ) but I fear 


180 


THE COMPANION 


to show you what I have done. If you condemn it, do not tel, 
me yet, I beg of you. Get me flatter myself until the evening. 

The hour of supper having come, he wrapped the little figure 
up in his handkerchief, and giving it to Pierre : “ Take it/’ said 
he, “ and wait till you are alone before looking at. If you find 
it bad, break it, and do not speak to me about it again.” 

“ I will take good care not to do that,” replied Pierre ; “ I 
cannot judge of the merit of such a thing ; but I know some one 
who must understand the matter, and I will tell you in an hour 
if you ought to go on or stop. Go wait for me at the house, and 
take some supper, for you have eaten nothing all day.” 

Pierre did not think of dressing himself in his fine clothes. 
He did not even remember the embarrassment he had experienced 
the evening before, on appearing in the presence of the count 
and of his daughter ; he thought only of his friend’s anxiety, 
and he asked to speak to M. de Villepreux. He was admitted, 
as before, into the study. Yseult was not there. Pierre entered 
without fear. 

“ This,” said he, “ is what my friend has attempted. It 
seems to me good ; but I do not understand the matter sufficiently 
to decide.” 

“ What ! a head 1” cried the count. “ But I did not ask for 
that ; or, rather, I did not expect it,” added he, looking at the 
figure with astonishment. 

“ Is not this a part of the ornaments which M. the count 
intended to intrust to us ?” 

“ By my faith ! I did not even think of telling you that 1 
would send some of the models to Paris to have them copied 
by artists there. I never should have thought your friend 
would have dared to undertake a thing of this importance. His 
boldness astonishes me a little, I confess ; but what astonishes 
me a great deal, is his success — for that appears to me remarka- 
ble. Still, as I am by no means a better judge than you, I will 
show it to my daughter, who draws very well, and has a great 
deal of taste.” 

The count rang. 

“ Is my daughter in the saloon ?” asked he of his valet-de- 
chambre. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


181 


“ Mademoiselle is in her study in the turret,” replied the 
valet. 

“ Request her to come to me,” returned the count. 

“ In the turret !” thought Pierre Huguenin. “ She was there 
just now when I was in the workshop, and I did not suspect it ! 
And the door is not yet replaced !” 

His heart beat violently when Yseult entered. 

“ Look at this, my child,” said the count, showing her the 
carved head ; “ what do you think of it V’ 

“ It is a very pretty thing,” replied mademoiselle de Ville- 
preux ; “ it is one of the figures of the old wainscotting, which 
they have taken down.” 

“ It is not one of the old ones,” replied Pierre, with a joyful 
assurance : “ it is the work of my companion.” 

“ Or your own ?” said she, looking at him. 

“ I have not so much skill,” replied he ; “ I should not risk 
the trial. I could make the foliage and borders, some animals, 
at most ; but human figures can come only from the chisel of 
my friend. Will you please mention your opinion, sir ?” 

In his trouble, Pierre had not been able to say “ mademoiselle” 
in addressing Yseult, and his confusion increased on seeing her 
smile at his mistake ; but immediately resuming her serious air : 

“ Do you know, my father,” said she, “ that this is very curi- 
ous and very remarkable ? There is herein a simplicity of feel- 
ing of more value than art ; and a professed artist would never 
have understood style as this workman has done. He would 
have wished to correct, to embellish. That which is a principal 
quality, the absence of knowledge, would have appeared to him 
a defect. He would have tormented and fashioned this wood 
without obtaining from it this simple form, so true, so full of 
grace in its awkwardness. It seems as if this came, like the 
model, from the hand of a workman of the sixteenth centu- 
ry : the same character, the same ingenuousness, the same igno- 
rance of rules, the same frankness of intention. I assure you 
that it is beautiful in its kind, and that you need not seek else- 
where a sculptor to repair the whole of the wainscotting. And 
he must be well paid, it is worth the trouble ; for this is a work 


182 


THE COMPANION 


which displays great intelligence. Chance has always served 
you well, my father ; this is a new proof of it.” 

Pierre heard Yseult’s words resound in his ears like music. 
The praises she bestowed on his friend, and the expressions she 
employed, seemed to him to come from a dream. He no longer 
thought of seeing in her other than the woman of taste and intel- 
ligence, whose studious retreat had filled him with enthusiasm 
before he saw her person. While she was speaking with her 
father, he had summoned courage to look at her ; and he found 
her, at that moment, as beautiful as he had imagined her. The 
reason was, that she spoke with animation of the things which 
filled the heart and the thoughts of l’Ami-du-trait and of the Co- 
rinthian’s friend. He felt that she was his equal, so long as he 
looked at her under this aspect of an artist. 

“We can then be something in her eyes,” thought he ; “ and 
if she has the miserable thought of despising our manners and 
coarse clothes, at least she is compelled to understand that a cer- 
tain genius must ennoble the labor of the hands.” 

More proud and more happy at the praises bestowed on the 
Corinthian than if he had deserved them himself, he felt his timid- 
ity suddenly disappear. 

“ I wish the Corinthian were here,” said he, “ so that he could 
hear what is said of his work. I wish I could remember the 
words which have just been said, in order to transmit them to 
him ; but I fear I have not understood sufficiently to repeat 
them.” 

“ Faith ! I hardly understood them myself,” said the old 
count, laughing. “ Our language is enriched every day with 
such charming subtleties. Will you explain to me what you 
have just said, my daughter?” 

“ My father,” replied Yseult, “ are there not things which are 
so much the letter because they are not well ? Is not the simple 
smile of a child a thousand times more charming than the affa- 
bility of a prince ? In all the arts, the greatest difficulty is to 
preserve natural grace, and this is what we cherish in the works 
of past times. Certainly they are not all good, and in the carved 
work of our chapel there is a complete ignorance of principles 
and rules. Still it is impossible to look upon it without pleasure 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


183 


and interest. The reason is, that the workmen of that epoch, and 
especially the unknown artisan who did that work, had the feel* 
ing of the beautiful and true. There are indeed there heads too 
large, arms and legs in a forced motion, and of a defective pro- 
portion ; but those heads have all a well-felt expression, those 
arms are graceful, those legs walk. Everything is full of grace 
and action. The ornaments are simple and broad. In a word, 
there is seen the product of the most happy natural faculties, and 
that holy confidence which constitutes the charm of childhood 
and the power of the artist.” 

The old count looked at his daughter, and in spite of himself 
he looked at Pierre, impelled by the invincible need of having 
some one share the pleasure he experienced at hearing her talk 
so well. A smile of happiness and sympathy embellished the 
already so beautiful countenance of the young artisan. Did 
mademoiselle Villepreux perceive it ? The count saw that what 
she had said was completely understood, and he could not doubt 
it when Pierre cried out : 

“ I can repeat that to the Corinthian word for word.” 

“ The Corinthian justifies his surname,” said the count. “ I 
feel interested in that young man. Where was he brought up ?” 

“ Like all of us, on the roads,” replied Pierre. “ We work 
and we study as we stop in one city and another. We have our 
workshops and our schools, where we are each other’s scholars. 
But as to the peculiar talents of which this work is the proof, no 
one has cultivated them in the Corinthian. It came to him one 
fine morning, and he formed himself entirely alone.” 

“ Is he not the son of some artist who has fallen into poverty ?” 
asked the count. 

“ His father was a journeyman carpenter like himself,” replied 
Pierre. 

“ And he is poor, this good Corinthian ?” 

“ Not exactly ; he is young, strong, industrious, and full of 
hope.” 

“ But he has nothing ?” 

“ Nothing but his hands and his tools.” 

“ And his genius,” said Yseult, as she looked at the carved 
head ; “ for he has that, I assure you.” 


184 


THE COMPANION 


“ Well ! we must cultivate it,” returned the count — “ Send 
him to Paris, to a drawing-school, and then place him with some 
good sculptor. Who knows ? perhaps he may make statuary 
some day, and become a great artist. We will think of that, 
will we not, my daughter ?” 

“With all my heart,” replied Yseult. 

“ Persuade him to continue,” said the count to Pierre Hugue- 
nin. “ I will go and see him work ; that will amuse me, and 
perhaps encourage him.” 

Pierre related the whole of this conversation to his friend, word 
for word, and Amaury dreamed statuary all night. As to Pierre, 
he dreamed of mademoiselle de Villepreux. He saw her under 
every form, — at one time cold and contemptuous, at another 
benevolent and familiar ; and I know not how the image of the 
turret door was always mingled with this vision. Once it seemed 
to him that the young chatelaine, standing on the threshold of her 
study, called him, and that he ascended to that door without the 
assistance of a staircase, by the sole power of his will. She 
showed him a great book in which were traced mysterious cha- 
racters and figures. But at the moment when he tried to deci- 
pher them, encouraged by the inspired smile of the young sybil, 
the door closed upon him with violence, and upon the pannel of 
that door he saw the face of Yseult ; but it was only a face of 
carved wood, and he said to himself : “ Have I not been very 
foolish to take this sculpture for a living being ?” 

When he woke from this painful sleep, dissatisfied with the 
involuntary trouble which had invaded his thoughts, hitherto so 
serene, he resolved to put an end to his dream by replacing the 
door. His first care was to take it from the corner where he 
had concealed it. The iron work was still good, and, as he had 
been requested to replace it in whatever condition it might be, he 
carried his movable ladder to the wall and began his work. 

While he was strongly hammering, with his face turned 
towards the workshop, mademoiselle de Villepreux entered her 
study to look for a note which her grandfather had asked for ; 
and, when Pierre turned, he saw her standing by a table and 
examining her papers without paying any attention to him. Still 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


185 


it was impossible that she should not have remarked his presence, 
for he made a great noise with his hammer. 

There was a moment’s respite in the din he was making. He 
had to measure a piece that was wanting in the upper plinth. 
At this moment Pierre faced the study. He was upon the 
threshold, and he felt less timid. He had the curiosity to look 
at mademoiselle de Villepreux, thinking indeed that she would 
not perceive him. Her back was turned to him ; but he saw 
her slight and graceful form, and her magnificent black hair, of 
which she was so little vain that she wore it in a close twist, 
although at that period the women had adopted the fashion of 
crisped puffs, proud and threatening. There is in the absence 
of coquetry something so touching, that Pierre had too much 
delicacy of mind not to remark it ; and he remarked it so long 
that mademoiselle de Villepreux was drawn from her preoccu- 
pation by the silence, as happens when one goes to sleep in a 
noise and is awakened when the noise ceases. 

“You are looking at this buffet ?” said she to him, in a per- 
fectly natural manner, and without an idea that she could herself 
be the object of such an attention. 

Pierre was confused, blushed, stammered, and, wishing to 
answer yes, answered no. 

“ Well ! look at it nearer,” said Yseult, who had not listened 
to his answer, and had resumed the arrangement of her papers. 

Pierre made some steps into the study with a despairing cou- 
rage. “ I shall not again see this place where I have passed 
such precious hours,” thought he ; “ I must bid it farewell on 
looking at it for the last time.” 

Yseult, who was seated at her table, said to him, without rais- 
ing her head : “ Is it not beautiful ?” 

“ This virgin of Raphael’s ?” said Pierre, entirely out of his 
senses and without thinking of what he said : “ Oh yes ! it is 
very beautiful !” 

Yseult, surprised that an engraving should attract the joiner 
more than the buffet, raised her eyes to him and saw his emo- 
tion, but without understanding it. She attributed it to the timid- 
ity which she had already noticed in him ; and, from a habit of 
affable goodness which her grandfather had inculcated, she 


186 


THE COMPANION 


wished to reassure him. “ You like engravings ?” said she to 
him. 

“ I like this one very much,’’ said Pierre. “ If my compa- 
nion could see it, he would be very happy.” 

“ Do you wish me to lend it to you that you may show it to 
him?” said Yseult. “Take it.” 

“ I should not dare,” stammered Pierre, quite overpowered by 
this familiar goodness which he had not expected. 

“ Yes ! yes ! take it down,” said Yseult, rising. She herself 
took the engraving from the wall to give to him. “ Could you 
copy this frame ?” added she, making him remark the carved 
frame of the madonna. 

“ It is cabinet work,” replied he, “ and yet I think I could 
make one like it.” 

“ In that case, I shall want several. I have some very fine old 
engravings here.” As she spoke, she opened the portfolio in 
which they were, and showed them to Pierre. 

“ I like this one best,” said he, stopping at a Mark Antony. 

“ You are right, it is the best,” replied Yseult, who took a 
candid pleasure at remarking the good sense and elevated judg- 
ment of the mechanic. 

“ Mon Dieu ! how beautiful it is !” returned he ; “I do not 
understand it, but I feel that it is grand. One is happy to be 
able to see beautiful things often !” 

“ They are rare everywhere,” said Yseult, with the desire to 
remove the secret bitterness which this exclamation revealed to 
her. 

Pierre still looked at the engraving. He admired it, doubtless, 
but he was thinking of something else. Every second that 
passed in this appearance of intimacy with the being who began 
to throw his soul into commotion, flowed over him like an age of 
happiness, which he enjoyed trembling. Time had no real value 
at that moment ; or, rather, that moment was to him separated 
from real life, as happens to us in dreams. 

“Since it pleases you so much,” said Yseult, moved in her 
artist’s soul, “ take it, I give it to you.” 

Pierre would have preferred she had said : 1 request you to take 
it. He compelled her to say so by refusing with a certain pride. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


187 


“ You will give me much pleasure by accepting it,” returned 
Yseult ; “ I can procure another for myself. Do not fear to de- 
prive me of it.” 

“ Well !” said Pierre, “ I will make a frame for you in ex- 
change.” 

“ In exchange ?” said mademoiselle de Villepreux, who 
thought the word rather familiar. 

“ Why not ?” said Pierre, who, in matters of delicacy, spon- 
taneously recovered the tact and decision of an elevated nature. 
“ I am not compelled to accept a present.” 

“ You are right,” replied Yseult with the feeling of noble 
frankness. “ I accept the frame, and with great pleasure;” and 
she added, on seeing the gentle pride which shone on the me- 
chanic’s brow : “ If my grandfather were here, he would be 
delighted at seeing that engraving in your hands.” 

Perhaps this innocent and dangerous interview would have 
been prolonged, but the little marchioness des Frenays interrupt- 
ed it. She entered with a strange exclamation of surprise. 

“ What is the matter with you, then ?” said Yseult to her with 
a sang-froid which suddenly disconcerted her. 

“ I expected to find you alone,” replied the marchioness. 

11 Well! am I not alone ?” said Yseult, lowering her voice, 
that the workman might not hear this terrible word. But he did 
hear it : the heart sometimes catches better than the ear. This 
horrible reply fell like death upon that soul burning with love and 
happiness. He threw the engraving into the portfolio, the port- 
folio upon a chair, with a movement of horror which could not 
escape mademoiselle de Villepreux ; and, resuming his hammer, 
he finished replacing the door with extreme rapidity. Then, 
departing without a bow, without turning his eyes towards the 
two ladies, he left the workshop, full of hatred for his idol, full 
of contempt at himself also, because he had allowed himself to be 
flattered by foolish imaginations. 


186 


THE COMPANION 


CHAPTER XIX. 

When the young ladies were alone, a very singular conversation 
took place between them. 

“ What you said was very harsh to that poor young man,” 
said the marchioness, on seeing Pierre Huguenin depart. 

“ He did not hear it,” replied Yseult, “ and, besides, he could 
not have understood it.” 

Yseult felt that she was lying to herself. She had very well 
remarked the mechanic’s indignation ; and as, in spite of the 
prejudices which the customs of the world might have given her, 
she was thoroughly good and just, she experienced a deep re- 
pentance and a kind of anguish. But she had too much pride 
to confess it. 

“ You may say what you please,” returned Josephine ; “the 
young man was wounded to the heart, and that was very easily 
seen.” 

“ He would be wrong to think I intended to humiliate him,” 
replied Yseult, who endeavored to excuse herself in her own 
eyes. “ If you had found me tete-a-tete with any other man, no 
matter whom, except my father or my brother, I should have 
made the same answer.” 

“ Indeed !” retorted the marchioness. “You would not have 
done it, cousin ! it would have been defying any other than a 
poor devil of a mechanic ; and as you know that, on the part of 
a man like that , you have nothing to fear, you have been brave 
and cruel very cheaply.” 

“Well! if I did wrong, it is your fault, Josephine,” said 
mademoiselle de Villepreux, with a little ill-humor. “ You 
provoked that foolish answer by a misplaced exclamation.” 

“Eh! Mon Dieu ! What did I do that was so improper? The 
fact is that I was surprised at finding you engaged in an animated 
conversation with a journeyman joiner. Who would not have 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


189 


been so in my place ? I uttered a cry in spite of myself ; and 
when I saw the young man blush to the whites of his eyes, I 
was very sorry that I had entered so suddenly. But how could 
I have foreseen ?” 

“ My dear,” said Yseult, interrupting her, with a vexation 
which she did not remember to have experienced ever before, 
“ aflow me to tell you that your explanations, your reflections, 
and your expressions are more and more ridiculous, and that the 
whole are in very bad taste. Do me the favor to speak of some- 
thing else. If I were to take my grandfather as a judge of the 
question, perhaps he would understand what you have in your 
mind better than I do, but I am not certain that he would be 
willing to tell me.” 

“ You give me a very severe lesson,” replied Josephine, “ and 
it is the first time that you have spoken to me in this manner, my 
dear Yseult. I have apparently said something very improper, 
since I have wounded you so much. My want of education is 
to blame ; but you, who have so much sense, my cousin, I am 
astonished that you are not more indulgent towards me. If I 
have offended you, forgive me.” 

“ It is I who beg you to forgive me,” said Yseult, in an op- 
pressed voice, and tenderly kissing Josephine, “ it is I who am 
wrong in every respect. One fault always occasions another. 
I spoke badly just now, and, because I suffer for it, I make you 
suffer. I assure you that I suffer more than you do at this moment.” 

“ Let us say no more about it,” said the marchioness, kissing 
her cousin’s hands ; “ one word from you, Yseult, will always 
make me forget everything.” 

Yseult tried to smile, but a weight remained upon her heart. 
She said to herself that if the mechanic did hear the cruel 
speech for which she reproached herself, she never could efface 
it from his memory; and, whether from dissatisfied pride or love 
of justice, she felt a wound in the depths of her conscience : she 
was not accustomed to be on bad terms with herself. 

The marchioness endeavored to distract her. 

“ Are you willing,” said she, “ that I should show you the 
drawing I made yesterday ? You will correct it for me.” 

“ Willingly,” replied Yseult. And when the drawing was 


190 


THE COMPANION 


before her : “It was a good idea of your’s,” said she to her, “to 
draw the chapel before it had lost its character as a ruin, and its 
air of desolation. I confess to you that I shall miss this disorder 
in which I was accustomed to see it, this gloomy coloring that is 
given to it by dust and age. I already regret those lamentable 
sounds occasioned by the wind penetrating through the cracks in 
the wall and the empty windows, the cries of the owls, and those 
little mysterious steps of the mice, which seemed like a dance 
of elves by the light of the moon. It will be very convenient to 
me as a working- room ; but, like everything that tends to comfort 
and utility, it will have lost its romantic poetry when the work- 
men have repaired it.” 

Yseult examined her cousin’s drawing, found it quite pretty, 
corrected some mistakes in perspective, persuaded her to color 
it, and assisted her to arrange her easel upon the threshold of the 
gallery. She perhaps hoped that, by placing herself at her side 
from time to time, she would find an opportunity of being affable 
with Pierre Huguenin, and of making him forget what she in- 
wardly called her impertinence. It is certain that she desired it, 
and that from this day she never saw him pass without experi- 
encing a little shame. There was in this feeling an excessive 
candor and a kind of religious scruple, in which the most austere 
casuist would have found nothing to blame, but at which some 
women of the world would have laughed, — been shocked, 
perhaps. 

However this may have been, she did not find the opportunity 
she sought. Pierre, as soon as he perceived her, left the work- 
shop, or kept so far off and was so busy with his work, that it 
was impossible to exchange a word, a bow, even a look with him. 
Yseult understood this resentment, and no longer had the courage 
to return to the threshold while Josephine’s drawing lasted. 
Thus, strange event, there was one of the most delicate secrets 
between mademoiselle de Villepreux, the lord’s daughter, and 
Pierre Huguenin, the journeyman joiner ; a secret that was con- 
cealed in the fibres of the heart more than it was formed in the 
thought, and which each knew must occupy the other, though 
neither would have consented to give an account to himself for 
this sorrowful sympathy. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


191 


Very different things, indeed, were passing in the mind of the 
marchioness ; and I know not what course to take, O respectable 
reader, to make you perceive them. She drew, and her draw- 
ing did not finish. Yseult, who was much interested in the read- 
ing and analytic compilation of works quite serious for her sex and 
age, remained a part of the day in her study, the door of which 
was always open between her and her cousin, while the curtain 
concealed her from the eyes of the workmen. She no longer 
went to the tribune, and saw Josephine’s drawing only when the 
latter brought it to her. Now, Josephine showed it to her less 
and less, and ended it by not showing it at all. Yseult was as- 
tonished at this, and said to her one evening : 

“ Well, cousin, what have you done with your drawing? It 
must be a masterpiece, for you have been at work on it a whole 
week.” 

“ It is horrible,” replied the marchioness quickly ; “ shocking, 
spoiled, daubed ! Don’t ask me to let you see it, I am ashamed 
of it ; I have a great mind to tear it up and begin again.” 

“ I admire your courage,” returned Yseult ; “ but if it would 
not be asking too great a sacrifice of you, I would request you to 
stop where you are. The noise of the workmen and the dust 
they make, inconvenience me very much. 1 have the habit of 
studying here, and I believe it would be impossible for me to 
study anywhere else. But I must give it up if you continue to 
leave my door open.” 

“Well, if I should draw with the door shut?” said the mar- 
chioness timidly. 

“ I don’t know very well how to give a reason for what I am 
going to say,” replied Yseult after a moment’s silence ; “ but it 
seems to me that would not be proper for you ; how does it seem 
to you ?” 

“ Proper ! the word astonishes me in your mouth.” 

“ Oh ! I know that I told you one was alone, though tete-5.- 
tete with a workman ; but this was a false idea as well as an 
insolent speech, and you know that I reproach myself for it. 
No, you would not be alone in the midst of six workmen.” 

“ In the midst ? Heaven save me from going to place myself 


192 


THE COMPANION 


in the very middle of the workshop ! It would not be at all a 
good point of view to draw from.” 

“ I know very well that the gallery is twenty feet from the 
floor, and that you are supposed to be in another apartment from 
that in which they work ; but in fine, what do I know ? I ask 
you yourself, Josephine, you must know better than I what is 
proper and what is not.” 

“ I will do whatever you wish,” replied the marchioness, with 
a little pout which did not make her ugly. 

“ It seems to vex you, my poor child ?” returned Yseult. 

“ I confess to you, this drawing amused me. There was some- 
thing pretty to be done, and I should have succeeded at last.” 

“ I never knew you so fond of drawing, Josephine.” 

“And you — I never knew you so English, Yseult.” 

“ Well, since you lay so much stress upon it, go on, I will still 
bear the noise of the hammer which splits my head, of that un- 
fortunate saw which gives me the toothache, and this villanous 
dust which spoils all my books and my furniture.” 

“No, no, I don’t wish you to do that. But what difference do 
you think there is between our being separated by a door or by a 
curtain ?” 

“ I ? I don’t know ; it seems to me that with the curtain you 
appear not to be alone, and that with the door it will be very 
different.” 

“ Do you believe those people take any notice of me at the 
distance they are from the gallery ? I say more, do you believe 
that I am anybody to them ?” 

“Josephine,” said Yseult, laughing and blushing at the same 
time, “ you are a hypocrite. Why did you make an exclama- 
tion when you found Pierre Huguenin here, talking with me, a 
week ago ?” 

“ I am sure I don’t know, not I ! really, I know nothing about 
it, Yseult ; it was a piece of stupidity on my part.” 

“ And it was, perhaps, one in me to consider that tete-^-tete in- 
significant, I have thought of it since. A man is always a man, 
whatever they may say. I certainly would not talk tete-a-tete 
in my study with Isidore Lerebours for example.” 

“ Because he is a fool, an ill-mannered coxcomb !” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


193 


“ A mechanic, like Pierre Huguenin for example, who is nei- 
ther ill-mannered, nor a coxcomb, nor a fool, is much more of a 
man, then, than M. Isidore.” 

“ Oh, that is certain.” 

“ And yet you would not go and draw in a workshop where 
there were several Isidores assembled !” 

“ Oh no, certainly ! yet I should think myself very much 
alone ; and if I were condemned to live in a desert island with 
the most perfect among them — ” 

“ You would draw the portrait of the ugliest animals rather than 
his, I can conceive that. But who then is this personage I see 
there ?” 

While talking with her cousin, Yseult had opened the portfolio 
of drawings and found that of the workshop. She had cast her 
eyes upon it without the absent Josephine’s thinking to prevent 
her, and had just remarked a pretty little figure gracefully stand- 
ing upon the shaft of a gothic column. 

Josephine uttered a little cry, rushed towards the drawing, and 
wished to snatch it from the hands of her cousin, who kept it 
from her by running round the chamber. This play lasted some 
moments ; then Josephine, who was very nervous, became quite 
red with vexation, snatched at the drawing and tore it, one half 
remaining in Yseult’s hands: it was exactly the half on which 
the personage figured. 

“No matter,” said Yseult laughing, “he is very genteel, 
really ! why are you so vexed ? Well, now your eyes are full 
of tears ! what a child you are ! you must needs tear your draw- 
ing ! It is done, are you sorry for it ? I will paste it together 
again — it will never show — in fact, it would be a pity, it is so 
pretty.” 

“You are not doing right, Y seult. I did not want you to see it.” 

“ You show self love with me now ! Are you not my pupil ? 
Since when have pupils hidden their work from the master ? But 
tell me then, Josephine, who is this personage ? ” 

“ But you can see, a figure of fancy, a page of the middle 
ages.” 

“Bah ! that’s an anachronism. If the chapel were entire, the 
page would be well placed ; but when it is in ruins, he is out of 
10 * 


194 


THE COMPANION 


date. It is not very probable that this poor young man can have 
been preserved there in all his freshness, and with the same 
clothes, for three hundred years.” 

“ There, now you are laughing at me, that is what I wished to 
avoid.” 

“ If you are vexed, I shall not dare to say any more. And 
yet — ” 

“Well, say on since you have begun. Don’t restrain your- 
self.” 

“Josephine, that page resembles the Corinthian enough to 
frighten one.” 

“ The Corinthian, with a slashed doublet and a page’s cap l 
You are crazy.” 

“ The doublet is closely related to a vest ; and as to this cap, 
it is cousin-german to the Corinthian’s,. which is not at all ugly, 
and becomes him very much. He wears his hair long, and cut 
exactly like this ; in fine, he has a charming face like that page. 
Well ! this is his ancestor, we will say no more about it.” 

“ Yseult,” said the marchioness, weeping, “ I did not think 
you were so cruel.” 

The tone with which these words were pronounced, and the 
tears which escaped from Josephine’s eyes, made Yseult start 
with surprise. She let fall the drawing, thinking she was in a 
dream, and tried to console her cousin, but without knowing how 
she could have offended her ; for she had had no other intention 
but to make a very innocent joke, which was by no means a 
new thing between them. She dared not let her thoughts dwell 
upon the discovery which those tears made her suspect, and at 
once repelled the idea as absurd and insulting to her cousin. 
The latter, seeing Yseult’s candor, wiped away her tears, and 
their quarrel ended as all did, by kisses and bursts of laughter. 

Well ! you have guessed it, O penetrating reader ! the poor 
Josephine, having read many romances (let this be a salutary 
warning for yourself), experienced an irresistible desire to bring 
into her own life a romance of which she should be the heroine ; 
and the hero was found. He was there, young, handsome as a 
demi-god, intelligent, and pure, more than any of those who have 
a right of citizenship in the most proper romances. Only he 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


195 


was a journeyman joiner, which was contrary to all received 
usage, I confess; but he was crowned, besides his beautiful hair, 
with the glory of an artist. This genius, discovered by a miracle, 
was flattered and praised every evening in the saloon, by the old 
count, who made for himself an amusement and a little vanity 
for having discovered him, and this interesting position made him 
quite the fashion at the chateau. At this day he would be a 
worn out character : people have already seen so many young 
prodigies as to have got tired of them ; and then it is very cer- 
tain that the people has been recognised as the great centre of 
intelligence and inspiration. But in those fine days of the resto- 
ration, of which I am speaking, it was a novelty to perceive this, 
a boldness not to deny it, and a lordly generosity to favor its de- 
velopment. Remember that in those times, already so far re- 
moved from the year 1840 by manners and opinions, persons 
comme il faut did not wish that the people should learn to read, 
and for a reason. The old count de Yillepreux was considered 
immoderately liberal by the lordlings, his neighbors, and that 
very liberalism displayed originality and exquisite taste in the 
eyes of the educated youth of the country. It was quite natural 
that the romantic Josephine should fall into this fashionable en- 
thusiasm, without understanding its extent. She saw in her hero 
a Giotto or a Benvenuto in the bud ; and more than all he was 
called neither la Rose , nor la Tulipe , nor la Rejouissance, nor le 
Flambeau-d’ amour : the least of these surnames would have 
sounded badly to the ear, and would have depoetized him, as is 
now said ; but he had a surname which pleased and which they 
liked to confirm to him ; he was called the Corinthian. 

Why was the Corinthian remarked, and why was not Pierre 
Huguenin ? The latter had no less success in the saloon ; that 
is, when, in the evening conversations, the Corinthian was 
mentioned, Pierre always shared the praises which were given 
him. The count admired his beautiful bearing, his distinguished 
air, his manners, the natural dignity of which was well worthy 
of remark, his upright, intelligent, sensible language, and espe- 
cially his ardent and poetical friendship for the young sculptor. 
But the case was that the sculptor was endowed with the sacred 
fire, and must have reflected it upon his friend the joiner. When 


196 


THE COMPANION 


they said these things the marchioness’s brow became animated ; 
she mistook her cards in playing at reversi with her uncle, or let 
her balls of silk fall as she embroidered at her frame ; and then 
she hazarded a timid glance at her cousin. It seemed to her 
that she must, sooner or later, discover an analogous romance be- 
tween her and Pierre Huguenin, and this fancy of her imagina- 
tion gave her courage. Still the peaceful Yseult spoke to her of 
Pierre with so much calmness and frankness, that there could be 
no illusion on that side. 

But if Josephine understood that people could and should pay 
attention to Pierre, she had nofie the less given the preference to 
the young Amaury. They could more easily be familiar with 
the latter, who was looked upon rather as a child. They called 
him the little sculptor ; they conversed about the destiny they 
dreamed of for him ; they went every day to see him work ; the 
count was familiar with him, called him his child, and put his 
hand on his head to present him to the strangers who came on a 
visit, and whom he carried to the workshop. They remarked 
the breadth and height of his forehead ; a country doctor, a par- 
tisan of Lavater and Gall, wished to take a cast of his head. In 
fine he had a more brilliant success than Pierre, with whom no 
one could play in that manner. It is sad to say it, but it is none 
the less true, that the greater part of the women of the world 
wait, before giving their preference to a man, for the judgment 
that may be passed on him in the saloons ; and he that is most 
liked, is, in their opinion, the most accomplished. Josephine 
had been too sensitive to the seductions of vanity, not to have 
yielded a little to this mistake. She therefore had her head 
turned for the handsome child, and could no longer conceal it. 
Matters had reached such a pitch that they joked her openly 
about it in the family, and she received the pleasantry with a good 
grace. She even provoked it sometimes ; which was quite a 
good manoeuvre to prevent the remark from becoming serious. 
This is why her cousin sometimes permitted herself to laugh about 
it with her, not thinking that she could in any way afflict her by 
what seemed to her a play ; and this is why she was so astonish- 
ed at seeing her weep on this occasion. But those tears gave 
her no information as yet ; for Josephine explained them as pro- 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


197 


ceeding from an artist’s self-love, a headache, anything she chose 
to invent. 

All the flatteries of the chateau had not as yet troubled the 
good Corinthian’s brain. The old count’s fondness certainly 
proceeded from a great fund of benevolence and generosity ; but 
he was very imprudent, for he might have misled the judgment 
of that young man torn from his peaceful obscurity to be thrown 
at once into the career of success and ambition. Happily 
Pierre Huguenin watched over him like a Providence, and 
retained him in his senses by wise criticisms. On his side, the 
elder Huguenin, even while frankly admiring the skill and the 
taste of the young sculptor, gave him the paternal advice to keep 
on his guard against praise. He had as yet no reason to com- 
plain of the new direction which the labor of his journeyman 
was about to take ; for the latter, faithful to his word, carved 
only on Sundays, or two or three hours in the evening, in the 
way of trial, and all his week days were consecrated to finish 
the wainscotting, for which he had engaged his services. He 
was not to carve definitively until he had entirely satisfied his 
master. But if the old joiner did not blame this bold attempt 
(even seeing with pleasure his son become associated in it — for 
upon this field ceased all jealousy of the trade, all competition in 
talent), he did not entirely approve the frequent and friendly 
relations that had been established between the saloon and the 
workshop. “ Certainly,” said he, “ I have no complaint to make 
of the old count. He is a just man, and his usual economy is 
changed to magnificence when he meets with merit. He has a 
very honest style of proceeding. His daughter, also, is prepos- 
sessing and good, under her quiet and indifferent manner. The 
young man (he referred to Raoul, Yseult’s brother) is rather 
shallow, lazy, and, as our Berrichon says, good for nothing ; but, 
take him all in all, he is not a bad boy ; and when his dogs 
have eaten our hens, he beats his dogs without sparing them. 
In fine, you can see by the manner of the steward towards us, 
that his master has ordered him to be polite and humane with 
poor folks. But, in spite of all this, I cannot, for myself, love 
those people as I should love other people, people of our own 
kind. I see that father Lacrete is not satisfied with them, because 


198 


THE COMPANION 


his rather unceremonious manners, and his very natural desire to 
earn as much as he can, are not well received at the chateau. 
M. the count may do what he will, he will not make me believe 
that he loves the people, although he passes for a famous liberal, 
and the stupids call him a jacobin. He will indeed take off 
his hat to him of us who has the most sense ; but we have 
only to forget ourselves a little with him, and see how he’ll get 
on his high horse to ride over the peasants ! He will take a louis- 
d’or from his pocket for a poor devil to drink his health with ; 
but let us try to drink to the republic, we shall see how he will 
pay the fiddler ! I see the young lady of the chateau give alms, 
go and come among the sick like a sister of charity, talk with a 
beggar as with a rich man, and wear dresses less handsome than 
those of her chambermaid ; no one can say that she wishes to 
crush the village, or that she has ever refused to do a service ; 
but go and propose to her to marry the son of a large farmer, 
had he as much education and as many crowns as she, she will 
tell you she cannot lower herself. I don’t blame her ; the bour- 
geois are no better than the nobles. But remember, my children, 
the great will always be the great, and the little will always be 
the little. They seem to try to make you forget this ; but let 
yourselves be caught, and you will see how they will refresh 
your memory ! oh — ho ! 1 haven’t lived till now without know- 
ing how much a vassal weighs in the hand of his lord.” 

There was one thing which especially displeased father 
Huguenin : this was the assiduity of the marchioness in placing 
herself on the tribune to draw, while the men were at work 
before her. He seemed to fear lest his son should take too much 
notice of her. “ What does that handsome lady come there for ?” 
said he in a very low tone when she had gone. “Is it the place 
of a marchioness to keep herself up there like a hen on a pole, 
while chaps like you look at the tips of her feet ? Suppose 
she has a little foot ; great Peggy would have a little foot too, 
if, instead of wearing a wooden shoe, she had kept it in a slipper 
all her life. And I, I don’t see what there is so handsome in it. 
Can she walk better, can she jump higher ? And besides, 
whom does she want to please, whom does she want to marry ? 
Isn’t she married ? And if she were not, would she like a 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


190 


mechanic ? In fine, what does she do up there on her perch ? 
Ts it to watch us ; is it to make our portraits ? Are we not well 
dressed gentlemen in blouses and shirt-sleeves, to serve her as 
models ? They say that there are in Paris people who are paid 
for having long beards, and getting themselves put in a picture. 
But that is the trade of idlers, and not ours.” 

“ Faith !” said the Berrichon, “ I shouldn’t earn much at that 
trade, for I am not handsome ; and unless there was a monkey 
to stick in a picture, I shouldn’t have much business. But do 
you know, our master, that she is very lucky, the little baroness, 
or the little countess, as they call her. to find herself with 
honest boys like us, who never say ugly words, and sing only 
moral songs ? For, in fine, there are workmen who would never 
let themselves be stared at like that, and who would make her 
go away, by saying coarse words on purpose, before her.” 

“ That is what we shall never do, I hope,” said Amaury ; “ we 
owe respect to a woman, whether she be a beggar or a marchio- 
ness ; and b 'sides, we respect ourselves too much to use coarse 
language. We are here to work, we work. That lady works 
also. I don’t know if it be on something beautiful or useful. 
We must think so ; otherwise what pleasure would she find in 
leaving her society for ours ?” 

The marchioness had made no other impression upon Amaury. 
He had indeed remarked that she was pretty, in consequence of 
hearing it said ; but he did not wish to believe that she was 
there for his sake, as the Berrichon and the apprentices thought. 
Besides, he had nothing but sculpture in his mind, and nothing in 
his heart but the Savinienne. 


200 


THE COMPANION 


CHAPTER XX. 

The old count was not very well known in his village of Ville- 
preux. He did not take possession of this domain until after the 
revolution, and had only come to it at distant periods, and re- 
mained three months at most. It was the least splendid of his 
habitations, and the most retired of his estates towards the peace- 
ful interior of France. At that period the Sologne was not dot- 
ted, as now, with fine growing forests, nor crossed by practicable 
roads. That region where so much still remains to be done, was 
a desert in which the wretched population of the country barely 
subsisted, but in which capitalists could attempt happy ameliora- 
tions. Under the pretext of devoting himself to agriculture, the 
old lord had made longer stoppages during the past two years, 
and this time had installed himself with all the preparations 
which the project of a long abode brings with it. The works 
which he caused to be undertaken, and the quantity of trunks, of 
books and domestics, which were each day seen to arrive, an- 
nounced a regular taking possession. This gave rise, as may be 
supposed, to many comments ; for, in the provinces, nothing can 
happen naturally, there must be a mysterious explanation for 
everything. Some said that the old lord came there to compose 
memoirs, which seemed to be the object of the long dictations he 
made to his daughter, and the study life he led with her. Others 
inclined to think that this same daughter, who appeared so dear 
to him, must have become entangled, at Paris, in some unhappy 
love, to cure her of which they came to watch over her in soli- 
tude and seclusion. The habitual paleness of this young person, 
her serious air, her retiring habits, her long watchings, were 
things strange enough in the eyes of the inhabitants of the coun- 
try to require to be explained by a romance. 

This last rumor sometimes reached the ears of Pierre Huguenin, 
and did not appear to him devoid of foundation. Mademoiselle 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


201 


de Villepreux was so different, in fact, from other young persons 
of her age, her cousin’s freshness and vivacity presented such a 
contrast by her side — and then the eccentricity of her habits was 
so exaggerated, that he knew not what to think. But what was 
it to him ? This was the question he asked himself ; and yet, 
when he heard this supposed passion spoken of, he felt his heart 
oppressed in a strange manner, and he made useless efforts to 
drive away a pre-occupation which appeared to him diseased and 
fatal. 

In a short time the count de Villepreux became wonderfully 
popular in the village. He gave a great deal of work, and paid 
for it with a liberality they had not known in him. He influ- 
enced the curate, by means of presents for his cellar and his 
church, and compelled him to be tolerant and to let the people 
dance on Sundays. He opposed the prefect in the matter of the 
conscription, and influenced the physicians named on the council 
of revision. In fine, he opened his park on Sundays to all the 
inhabitants of the village, and even paid the musicians to make 
them dance in the warren, under the shadow of a fine old oak 
called the Rosny, like all venerable trees honored by that illus- 
trious origin. 

Father Huguenin’s workmen arrayed themselves in their best 
on that day and led out, in preference to the peasant girls, the 
smart abigails of the chateau. The Berrichon there displayed 
all his graces, and his capers did not fail of success. The Co- 
rinthian also gave himself up to this amusement, but without 
caring for one partner more than for another, and perhaps only 
to satisfy a little childish coquetry ; for he was so graceful in his 
blouse of grey trimmed with green, and the Swiss cap he had 
brought from his journeys became him so well, that all eyes 
were fixed upon him, and the young girls were envious of the 
honor of dancing with him. 

The old count came with his family, at the hour when the 
sun declined and the air became fresh, to look at these village 
dances and familiarize the good people with his signoral presence. 
They were flattered by the pleasure he took in it, and the agree- 
able things he knew how to say to each. There was a turf seat 
under the oak, on which no one was allowed to sit beside him and 
10 * 


202 


THE COMPANION 


his daughter, but to the side of which he drew the elders of the 
country to talk with them — even father Huguenin, who vainly 
affected his grand republican air, and who allowed himself to be 
caught quite like another, though he would not acknowledge it. 

In the beginning, young Raoul de Villepreux danced with the 
prettiest girls, and never failed to kiss them, which made their 
sweethearts look rather sour ; but this had no effect: so that one 
day father Lacrete, who was not far from the seat of turf, 
clenched his fist with a half-bantering, half-savage air, and 
swore, by all the gods whose name he could invoke, that, in his 
time, he would not have allowed his girl to be kissed by any one, 
were he the dauphin of France. Father Lacrdte had had a bill 
cut down by the architect of the chateau and made open opposi- 
tion to the family. 

The count, who had no wish to compromise his popularity, did 
not take up the old locksmith’s words ; but neither did he let 
them fall, and the young lord appeared no more at the dances 
under the oak. 

M. Isidore danced, and God knows with what ridiculous pre- 
tence, and what impertinent airs of triumph ! The village girls 
were dazzled by them ; but the chambermaids, who understood 
good manners, and the deputy’s daughter, who was quite a prin- 
cess, considered him too familiar. Madame des Frenays had 
danced with her cousin Raoul in the first days, and had not dis- 
dained to put her little hand into that of the peasant who stood 
opposite her in the contredance. But that hand was covered with 
a glove, which appeared very insulting to the greater part of the 
dancers, and which prevented their asking her, though she was 
dying with desire to be asked, for she danced charmingly ; her 
little feet barely grazed the turf, and there are no clowns for a 
pretty woman who sees herself admired. 

When Raoul disappeared from the village dance by superior 
order, the marchioness, no longer able to resist, accepted Isidore s 
invitation. But, after Isidore, no one presented himself; and she 
complained of it quite naively to her uncle when he asked her 
why she danced no more. 

“ You see what it is to be a fine lady,” said the count. “ But 
let me see if I can’t find a partner for you. Come here, my 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


203 


child,” said he to the Corinthian, who was two steps from him ; 
“ I see clearly that you are very desirous to ask my niece, but 
do not dare. Now, I declare to you that she will be delighted to 
dance. Come, offer your hand to her, and take places for 
a contredance ! I will call the figures.” 

The Corinthian was too much spoiled at the chateau to be 
astonished or confused at such an honor. “ It is the first time I 
ever had a marchioness for a partner,” said he to himself ; “ no 
matter, I will make her dance as well as any other — and I don’t see 
why I should be so dazzled.” This was an inward reply to the 
staring glances of the Berrichon, who was placed opposite to him, 
and was quite stupefied by the adventure. 

Even while leaping lightly upon the green with his partner, 
the Corinthian, who, in spite of his inward courage, had not yet 
dared to look her in the face, perceived that this queen of the 
ball was so confused that she made mistakes in the figures. At 
first, he understood nothing of this, and, wishing to assist her in 
recovering her place without being reached by the Berrichon’s 
impetuous flings, he took the liberty, but without any other feel- 
ing than that of a natural deference, to place his hand under the 
marchioness’s elbow in order to prevent her falling. That elbow, 
bare between a short sleeve and a mitten of black silk, was so 
round, so small, and so soft, that the Corinthian did not feel 
it at first, and seeing the Berrichon launched in an unrestrain- 
able pirouette and the marchioness totter, he clasped her elbow 
to restore her equilibrium. But that pressure was electrical. 
Josephine became red as a cherry, and the Corinthian had an 
attack of sudden timidity and insurmountable discomfort. He 
hastened to reconduct her to her seat as soon as the contredance 
was finished, and withdrew with a kind of terror. But no sooner 
did the violin give the signal for the next contredance, than he 
found himself, as by magic, at the side of madame des Frenays, 
and her hand was in his. What form had he employed to ask 
her anew, and how had he dared ? He never knew, — a cloud 
floated about him, and he acted as if in a dream. 

From that day, the Corinthian danced with the marchioness 
every Sunday, and oftener three times than once. Flis example 
encouraged the others, and Josephine no longer missed a dance. 


204 


THE COMPANION 


When the Corinthian was not her partner, he was her vis-a-vis , 
and their hands touched, their breaths mingled, and their eyes 
sought each other, to be withdrawn and to seek each other again. 
All these little prodigies take place so spontaneously when one 
likes dancing, that one has no time to reflect, and the spectators 
no time to perceive. 

Yseult never danced, although her grandfather often requested 
her to, and the marchioness, a little ashamed of the pleasure she 
took in it, would have wished to draw her into the village- whirl. 
Was it disdain ? was it indifference on the part of the young 
chatelaine ? Pierre, keeping always quite distant from her, and 
covered either by the groups or by the thickets behind which he 
slowly wandered, often had his eyes fixed upon her, and asked 
himself what thoughts filled that impenetrable brow, in which so 
much energy was hidden beneath so much languor. Mademoi- 
selle de Villepreux always had the appearance of a fatigued per- 
son, who takes pleasure in making no use of her faculties while 
she awaits the opportunity of applying them to new deeds of 
strength. Pierre studied her like a book in an unknown lan- 
guage, in which we hope to find some word that will enable us to 
guess the meaning. But that book was sealed, and not a sylla- 
ble revealed the mystery. 

Still she did not appear to be annoyed. From time to time she 
addressed herself to the women of the village, and with a polite 
familiarity, the shade of which was very difficult to seize. She 
seemed to avoid the affectation of goodness which was revealed 
by every gesture of her grandfather, and, at the same time, she 
was seriously and tranquilly benevolent. She never intimidated 
the persons with whom she conversed ; and it was impossible to 
perceive the least difference in her manners or features whether 
she was talking to her grandfather or cousin, to Father Hugue- 
nin or the village children. Although poor Pierre had upon his 
heart an insult which appeared to him ineffaceable, he sometimes 
said to himself that she had the feeling or the instinct of equality 
in the clearest and most complete degree. But this was too 
exalted an idea for the people of the village. They did not hate 
the demoiselle , as they called her, but they did not feel for her 
that attachment which the old count knew how to inspire. “ She 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


205 


does not show it,” said they, “ but one would say that within she 
is proud.” 

One day, Amaury found a volume which the marchioness, 
who no longer came to draw in the workshop, had left in the 
park. He carried it to his friend Pierre, knowing well how 
much he loved books. 

In fact, the sight of a book always gave Pierre a thrill of desire 
and joy. For many days he had been deprived of reading, and 
he imagined that this favorite relaxation would drive away the 
sad thoughts by which he was besieged. 

It was one of Walter Scott’s novels, I do not remember which, 
but one of those in which the hero, a simple mountaineer, or 
poor adventurer, becomes enamored of some lady, queen or prin- 
cess, is loved by her in secret, and, after a succession of charm- 
ing or terrible adventures, at last becomes her lover and husband. 
This intrigue, at once simple and piquant, is, as is known, the 
favorite theme of the king of novel-writers. If he be the poet of 
lords and monarchs, he is also the poet of the peasant, of the sol- 
dier, of the outlaw, and the mechanic. It is true that, faithful 
to his aristocratic prejudices, and too English to be bold to the 
end, he never fails to discover for his noble vagabonds an illus- 
trious family, a rich inheritance, or to make them ascend, step by 
step, the ladder of honors and fortune, in order to place them at 
the feet of their ladies, without exposing the latter to a misalliance 
by a pure love-marriage. But it is also certain that we must 
give him credit for having painted the people in poetic colors, for 
having drawn from them grand and severe figures, whose devoted- 
ness, bravery, intelligence, and beauty, rival the splendor of the 
principal hero, sometimes even to surpass and efface him. With- 
out any doubt, he understood and loved the people, not from prin- 
ciple, but by instinct, and the artist was not blinded by the pre- 
judices of the gentleman. 

Those novels, in spite of their exquisite and adorable chastity, 
are quite as dangerous for young heads, quite as subversive of 
the old social order, as novels must be which are romantic and 
read with avidity by all classes of society. It is therefore to Sir 
Walter Scott that must be attributed the disorder which had 
become organized, if we may so speak, in the brain of Josephine. 


206 


THE COMPANION 


She dreamed that she was a lady of the fifteenth or sixteenth cen- 
tury who was to be pursued by a young artisan, the foundling of 
some great family, soon to rush forward in the career of talent 
and glory, and to recover his titles or attain them by his merit 
and reputation. Had not most of the great masters of art issued 
from the common people ; and what marchioness, even having a 
genealogy, would not have been flattered at being the idol and 
ideal of those illustrious proletaries, Jean Goujon, Puget, Canova, 
and a hundred others counted by the history of art in all its 
branches ? 

This volume was devoured by the two friends in an evening, and 
gave them such a desire to know the rest of the novel, that, not 
daring to request the loan of it at the chateau, they hired it from 
the library of the nearest city. This reading produced upon them 
an effect equally deep but different. Pierre saw in it the fanci- 
ful idealization of woman ; the Corinthian there saw the possible 
realization of his own destiny, not as the unknown heir of some 
great fortune, but as the predestined conqueror of glory in art. 
He naively confessed to Pierre his ambition and his hopes. 

“You are happy,” replied his friend; “to have these sweet 
chimeras in your mind. And after all, why should they not be 
realized ? the arts are now the only career in which titles and 
privileges are not absolutely necessary. Work therefore, my 
brother, and do not be rebuffed. God has given you much : 
genius and love ! It seems that he has marked you on the fore- 
head for a brilliant existence ; for, at the age when most of us 
still vegetate in gross ignorance, interrogating with apathetic 
sadness the problem of our future, you are already sure of your 
vocation ; you are distinguished by persons capable of appreciat- 
ing and assisting you. But this still is nothing : you are beloved 
by the most beautiful and the most noble woman there is perhaps 
in the world.” 

When Pierre spoke of the Savinienne, Amaury sank into a 
melancholy which his friend in vain endeavored to combat. 
“ How 1 can you be so deeply affected by an absence of which 
you know the termination,” said he to him, “ and in which you 
are sustained by the certainty of being faithfully and courageously 
loved ? I surprise myself envying your misfortune.” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


207 


Amaury usually replied to these reproaches that the future 
was covered by an impenetrable veil, and that the hope with 
which he had flattered himself was perhaps too beautiful to be 
realized. “ Do you believe then,” said he, “that Romanet will 
easily give up the treasure I dispute with him ? During a year 
which he will pass near the mother, seeing her every day and 
giving her at every hour proofs of his devoted ness and passion, 
do you believe that she will not make wiser reflections than those 
of which you were the confidant in an hour of trouble and enthu- 
siasm ? When she talked with you, we all had the fever. It was 
after violent emotions ; after a scene in which, to avenge her, I 
had committed murder : a murder, the fatal remembrance of which 
pursues me incessantly and throws a gloomy reflection upon my 
thoughts of love ! At this time she perhaps already repents of 
what she said to you ; and before the termination of her mourn- 
ing, perhaps she will regret the kind of engagement which that 
confidence made her indirectly contract with me, as she then 
regretted the engagement which her husband made her contract 
with Bon-soutien.” 

These doubts, which were not in harmony with the Corinthian’s 
bold and believing character, astonished Pierre, the more that they 
seemed to increase each day, so that he attributed this dejection 
to the involuntary murder committed by his friend. He tried to 
drive away the anguish of that bitter remembrance and to justify 
the Corinthian in his own eyes. 

“ No, J have no remorse,” replied the young man to him, 
“ Every morning and every evening I raise my soul to God, and 
I know that it is at peace with him ; for I detest violence ; I feel 
neither hatred, nor anger, nor revenge, and the quarrels of the 
companionship excite in me only fyorror and pity. I saw fall her 
whom I loved, struck by a blow which I thought mortal ; I killed 
her assassin, in an impulse of defence more legitimate than that 
of a soldier in battle. But that blood shed between the Savinienne 
and me will leave sad stains ; it is a horrible presage, of which I 
cannot think without shuddering.” 

“ It is absence that renders this idea still more horrible to you. 
If the Savinienne were here, you would forget, in the happiness 


203 


THE COMPANION 


of seeing and hearing her, the gloomy images which float in your 
memory.” 

“ That is certain ; but perhaps I should then be more culpable 
than I am now. Pierre, you told me, not long since, that you 
were disgusted with the companionship, and that you experienced 
the need of withdrawing from all connected with those criminal 
and senseless strifes. I have many more motives now than you 
had then to experience the same disgust. I cannot endure the 
idea of again plunging into them and especially of allowing the 
companion of whom I have dreamed to live there. The Savinienne 
must leave that sad vocation ; I would wish to take her from that 
cut-throat house, the threshold of which I should never pass with- 
out a cold sweat and a mortal shudder.” 

“ I hope,” replied Pierre, “ that time will soften this impression, 
the bitterness of which I understand too well, but by which you 
are perhaps more overpowered than necessary. Remember the 
days of happiness passed in that so religiously hospitable mansion, 
which the Savinienne sanctifies by her presence. Firmer and 
stronger in the storm than you, she has always preserved her faith 
and her clemency for the service of the victims whom new furies 
might still break upon her hearthstone. Her part is very great, I 
assure you ; and the more I see her surrounded by dangers, the 
more do I consider her worthy of respect and love, that woman 
pure in the midst of revel, and calm in the bosom of the furies 
which rage around her. It seems to me that she there fulfils a 
duty more august than that of a queen in the midst of her court, 
and that in seeking a more peaceful and more elegant life she 
would renounce a mission which heaven has confided to her.” 

“ O Pierre !” said the Corinthian with emotion, “ your mind 
ennobles the meanest things, and even makes divine the most 
elevated. Yes, the Savinienne is a saint ; but I cannot love her 
without desiring to remove her from hell.” 

“You will do so some day,” replied Pierre. “When you 
have secured, by the sweat of your brow, a more pleasing exist- 
ence, you will be permitted to associate in it your companion. 
Then she will indeed have labored enough, have suffered enough 
for her numerous children of the tour of France; and this 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


209 


change of position will be the recompense, not the abjuration, of 
her duties.” 

“ And in how many years will that take place ?” cried the 
Corinthian, with an expression of misery by which Pierre was 
strongly struck. 

“ O my dear child !” said he to him, “ I have never seen you 
in such haste to live. How ! does your courage fail you in the 
moment of your life when you have most strength and power ?” 

The Corinthian hid his face in his hands. Seated upon a fallen 
tree in the park of the chateau, the two friends had been con- 
versing thus for more than an hour. It was Sunday, and the 
musicians who were going to the warren for the bal champetre, 
passed along the outside wall playing upon their instruments in 
the midst of the laughs and songs of the village youth who 
escorted them. 

The Corinthian rose quickly. 

“ Pierre,” said he, “this is sadness enough for to-day. Let us 
go and dance under the Rosny ; will you ?” 

“ I never dance,” replied Pierre, “ and I am glad of it, for it 
seems to me but a sad resource against sorrow.” 

“ From what do you see that ?” 

“ From the manner in which you invite me.” 

“ It is a singular pleasure, in fact,” said the Corinthian, reseat- 
ing himself ; “ it is like that of wine, which exhilarates you, and 
which distracts you from your troubles only to bring them back 
more heavy the next day.” 

“ Let us go,” said Pierre, rising in his turn, “ all means are 
good, provided we live. It is good to forget, for it is good to 
remember afterwards. One is pleasant, the other salutary. 
Come, let us go to the dance.” 

“ You ought rather to prevent my going, Pierre,” replied the 
Corinthian, without rising. “You do not know to what you 
advise me ; you do not know where you lead me.” 

“ Then you have concealed something from me ?” said Pierre, 
resuming his seat by his friend’s side. 

“ And you, have you guessed nothing then ?” replied Amaury. 
“ Have you not seen then, that there is there, under the oak, a 
woman whom I certainly do not love, for I do not know her, but 


210 


THE COMPANION 


from whom I cannot withdraw my eyes, because she is beautiful, 
and beauty has an irresistible power? Is not art the worship of 
the beautiful ? How could 1 ever meet the glance of two beau- 
tiful eyes and turn away my own ? That is impossible, Pierre ! 
And yet I do not love her; I cannot love her, can I ? All this 
is therefore very ridiculous.” 

“ But what do you mean ? T do nnt ’jftdcrstaliu you. Vvno 
is this woman ? How can any other than the Savinienne appear 
beautiful to you ? If I loved, if I were beloved, it seems to me 
that there would be but one woman for me on the earth. I 
should not even know that others existed.” 

“ Pierre, you understand nothing of all that. You have never 
been in love. Perhaps you believe in a superhuman power 
which is not in love. Listen : I will open my heart to you ; I 
w’ill tell you what takes place in me, and, if you can see it more 
clearly than myself, I will follow your advice. I have told you, 
there is below there a woman whom I look at with emotion, and 
whom I think of with still more emotion when I do not see her. 
Do you remember what you said to me in the workshop some 
five or six days ago about a little figure I had carved in one of 
my medallions ?” 

“ It was the head, the hair, if not the features of a lady — ” 

“ It is very useless to name her. There are but two : one is 
the image of indifference, the other of life. You asserted that I 
intended to make the portrait of the latter, I denied it. In fact, 
I had no such intention ; but, in spite of me, something of her 
graceful form did come from under my chisel. You insisted ; 
you called William to witness. We talked rather loudly per- 
haps, and I do not know if what we say in the workshop is not 
heard in the cabinet of the turret. We came away ; and then, 
at night, I returned to take the book we had left there. You 
waited for me at the house to finish it. You waited a long while. 
I told you that I had walked a little in the park to drive away a 
headache. I did not deceive you ; my head was on fire, and I 
walked a great deal after I left the workshop.” 

“ What happened there, then ? I could not have imagined it. 
A lady ! a marchioness ! You a mechanic, a journeyman — 
Corinthian ; were you not dreaming, my child ?” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


211 


u I was not dreaming, and nothing very romantic took place. 
Listen, nevertheless. I entered the workshop without a light ; I 
did not need one to find my book, for I knew exactly where I had 
left it. I saw the bottom of the workshop lighted, and a lady 
examining my sculpture, precisely the little head which resembles 
her. On seeing me, she uttered a cry and let her candle fall. 
Then we were both in the dark ; I had not recognised her cer- 
tainly, I don’t know why, but I approached, feeling my way, and 
asking who was there. I extended my hands and suddenly found 
myself nearer her than I had supposed. She did not answer 
though I had her in my arms. My head was bewildered, the 
darkness emboldened me, I pretended to be mistaken ; I ap- 
proached my trembling lips, naming mademoiselle Julie ; I 
touched tresses the perfume of which intoxicated me. She 
pushed me away, but gently, saying : 

“ ‘ It is not Julia, it is I, M. Amaury ; do not be deceived.’ 

“ She did not seriously try to disengage herself, and I — I 
could not resolve to let her go. 

“ 1 Who are you then V said I, ‘ I do not know your voice.’ 

“ Then she escaped from me, for I did not dare retain her, and 
she began to run in the dark. I did not follow her ; she struck 
against a bench and fell, uttering a cry. I rushed forward, I 
raised her, I thought she was hurt. 

“ ‘ No, it is nothing,’ said she to me. £ But you frightened me 
horribly, and I almost killed myself.’ 

“ ‘ How could you be afraid of me, madam V 
“ 1 But how did you not recognise me, sir V 
“ 1 If madam the marchioness had named herself, I should not 
have taken the liberty to approach.’ 

“ ‘ You expected to find Julia instead of me ? She was to have 
come here V 

“ ‘ By no means, madam ; but I thought your chambermaid 
was playing me some trick, and I was so far from believing — ’ 

“ ‘ I was looking for a book which I thought I had left in the 
gallery, and which I saw there near your sculpture.’ 

“ ‘ Does that book belong to madam the marchioness ? If I had 
known it — 5 


212 


THE COMPANION 


“ 1 Oh ! you have done very well to read it if you wished. 
Shall I leave it for you still V 

“ ‘ It is Pierre that reads it.’ 

“ 4 And you, do you not read V 

“ £ I read a great deal, on the contrary.’ 

“ Then she asked me what books I had read, and there she 
was talking with me as if we were at the contredance. A little 
light came in by the open window ; I saw her near me like a 
white shadow, and the wind played in her hair, which appeared 
to be untied. I had again become so timid that I could hardly 
answer her. I had felt more bold when she was flying from me ; 
but when she began to question me, I felt my nothingness, I 
blushed for my ignorance, I feared to express myself poorly ; I 
was so cowardly that I felt ashamed. It seemed to me that she 
must despise me. Still she did not go ; her voice was entirely 
changed ; and, while asking questions of me as of a child in 
whom she felt an interest, she seemed so agitated that I said to 
her, in order to change the conversation : ‘ I am sure you must have 
hurt yourself in falling.’ I know very well that I ought to have 
said : ‘ Madam the marchioness has hurt herself.’ I did not wish 
to say it ; no, for nothing in the world would I have said it. ‘ I 
did not hurt myself,’ she replied, ‘ but I was so frightened that 
my heart still beats. I thought it was one of the workmen run- 
ning after me.’ 

“ These words surprised me very much. What did she mean ? 
Am I not a workman also ? Did she mean to flatter me by say- 
ing that she placed me apart, or was it a contemptuous idea that 
escaped in spite of her ? Besides, she did recognise me very 
well, for she named me at once. She rose to go, and her dress 
caught upon a saw which was there. I was obliged to assist in 
disentangling it, and that silk dress which was so soft thrilled me 
to the tips of my fingers. I was like a child who holds a butter- 
fly, and is afraid of spoiling its wings. Then she tried to find 
the step-ladder in order to regain the gallery, and I neither dared 
to follow her nor to go away. When she was on the first step, 
she again uttered a slight cry, and I heard the boards creak. I 
thought she had fallen again, and in two bounds I was by her 
side. She laughed, even while she said she had bruised her 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


213 


foot, and she said also that she did not dare to mount for fear of 
falling. I proposed to go for a light. 

“ ‘ Oh ! no, no !’ cried she. ‘ No one must know that I am 
here.’ And she gathered courage to climb. I should have been 
very rude, should I not, if I had not helped her ? She was really 
in danger, ascending in the dark that ladder, which would not be 
easy for a woman in broad daylight. I therefore went up with her, 
and she supported herself on me. And then at the last step she 
almost fell again, and I was obliged to hold her again in my arms. 
The danger past, she thanked me in a tone so gentle, and with 
so flattering a voice, that I felt agitated ; and when she closed 
the door of the tower between us, I had something like a fit of 
madness. I rested my two arms on that door, as if I were about 
to burst it in. But I fled immediately through the park, and I 
verily believe I have not recovered my whole reason since that 
day. Still, there are moments when all this appears to me other- 
wise. It seems to me she must be very coquettish to wish to 
turn the brain of a man she would not dare to love. This would 
be very cowardly ; and if the marchioness has had such an idea, 
it would not be the action of a woman who respects herself. An- 
swer me, then, Pierre, what do you think of it ?” 

“ It is a very delicate question,” replied Pierre, whom this re- 
cital had troubled a great deal. “ Would not a woman so placed, 
who should seriously love a man of the people, be very great 
and very courageous ? Of how many persecutions would she 
not be the object ! And, in that affection, would she not, in some 
sort, be compelled to make the advances ? For what man of the 
people would dare to love the first, and would not, like you, feel 
some distrust ? Thus you see I cannot blame this lady if she 
does feel love for you. $ut I know not why I have little con- 
fidence in the truth of that love. This marchioness, being the 
daughter of a citizen, and able to choose among her equals, 
allowed herself to be married to a very miserable fellow, because 
he had a title. She debased herself by that marriage, thinking 
to remove more and more from the people of whom she was 
born.” 

“ Could not the answer he given to that,” said Amaury, “that 
she was then a child, that she did not know what she was doing, 


214 


THE COMPANION 


that her parents advised her badly ? And now, is it not possible 
that she has reflected seriously, that she has repented of her 
error, and that, having received a cruel lesson from destiny, she 
has returned to more noble sentiments ?” 

“ Yes, that is possible,” replied Pierre. “ I like to hear, and 
try to believe all that can excuse and justify so unfortunate a 
woman. But of what consequence is it to us to know if she be 
sincere or a coquette ? Could you ente-rtain for a single moment 
the thought of replying to such advances ? O, my friend, if a 
disproportionate, unrealizable love should take possession of you, 
be certain that your future would be compromised, and your soul 
in some sort stained. Beware, therefore, of dangerous dreams 
and of the sallies of your imagination. You know not how 
much we suffer when we once allow to pass before the pure 
mirror of reason certain deceitful phantoms which cannot become 
fixed in our life of poverty and privation.” 

“ You speak of these chimeras as if your firm and wise mind 
could know them,” replied Amaury, struck with the tone of bit- 
terness with which his friend’s words were accompanied. “ Have 
you then already seen an example of that disproportionate love 
which you condemn ?” 

“Yes, I have seen one,” answered Pierre, with emotion, “ and 
some day perhaps I will relate it to you ; but it would be too 
painful at this moment ; it is quite a fresh wound which has been 
made in the heart of an honest man. He did not deserve it, 
doubtless ; but it will be salutary to him, and he thanks God for 
it.” 

Amaury half understood that Pierre spoke of himself, and he 
did not dare question him further. But, after a few moments of 
silence, he could not help asking if the marchioness had anything 
to do with the example to which he referred. 

“ No, my friend,” replied Pierre ; “ I think the marchioness 
better than the person of whom you compel me to think. But, 
whatever she may be, Amaury, do not imagine that this mar- 
chioness, without a husband, without a marriage tie, without pru- 
dence, and without power over herself, is a being as beautiful, as 
pure, and as precious before God as the noble Savinienne with 
her resignation, her firmness, her courage, her reputation without 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


215 


spot, and her maternal love. A robe of satin, small feet, soft 
hands, tresses arranged like those of a Greek statue, are, I con- 
fess, great attractions, for us especially, who only see these beau- 
ties so well adorned at a certain elevation above ourselves, as we 
see the richly dressed virgins in the churches. Beautiful words, 
an air of sovereign goodness, a mind more fine, more cultivated 
than our own, this also is enough to dazzle us and make us doubt 
if these women are of the same race as our mothers and our sis- 
ters ; for the latter are placed under our protection, while we are 
as children in presence of the others. But, be certain, Amaury, 
our women have more heart and more real merit than these great 
ladies, who despise while they flatter us, and tread us under their 
feet while they extend the hand to us. They live in gold and 
silk. A man must present himself to them bedecked and per- 
fumed like them ; otherwise he is not a man. We, with our 
coarse clothes, our rough hands, and our disordered hair, we are 
machines, animals, beasts of labor ; and she who could forget it 
for a moment would blush at us and at herself an instant after- 
wards. ” 

Pierre spoke with bitterness, and by degrees had raised his 
voice. Suddenly he interrupted himself, for it seemed to him 
that the foliage stirred behind him. The Corinthian was also 
struck by this mysterious rustling. He trembled lest the mar- 
chioness or some one of the maid-servants of the chateau had 
overheard his confidences. Another thought had come to Pierre ; 
but he repelled and did not express it. He retained his friend, 
who wished to rush into the thicket in pursuit of the curious doe, 
and laughed at his folly. But their suspicions were increased 
when, having advanced some steps, they saw a light and agile 
figure glide like a phantom under the branches of a little alley, 
and lose itself in the twilight. 

They went under the oak in order to see what persons from 
the* chateau had arrived before them. The marchioness had just 
come with her chambermaid Julia, a young brushed up turkey- 
feeder, as father Lacr^te ironically called her, quite coquettish 
and tolerably pretty. The count de Villepreux was not there. 
Neither was his daughter. Still it might very well be she who 
had passed by the thicket at the moment when Pierre pronounced 


216 


THE COMPANION 


upon her, without naming her, a kind of imprecation. He knew 
that she studied botany, and he had sometimes seen her enter the 
coppice to gather mosses and creeping plants. But it might also 
have been the marchioness who had stolen there to listen to them. 
They felt some secret perplexity on this account, when the Co- 
rinthian, either to seek an opportunity to throw light upon this 
mystery, or drawn by an irresistible inclination, suddenly left his 
friend’s arm, and went to ask Josephine to dance. Pierre could 
not help feeling pained at seeing the strength of this reciprocal 
attraction. He drew aside to observe them, and soon saw that a 
great danger threatened the Corinthian’s reason and peace of 
mind. The marchioness appeared to him not less to be pitied. 
She seemed at once intoxicated and terrified. When the young 
sculptor was at her side, she saw no one but him ; but, as soon 
as he withdrew, she ventured to cast around fearful glances full 
of confusion. “ She must love him a great deal,” said Pierre to 
himself, “ to come here, almost alone, and dance with these 
honest peasants, who certainly are only rustics in her eyes.” 
Pierre was deceived on this last point. Those rustics had eyes ; 
they admired the brilliant freshness of Josephine Clicot, and the 
light grace of her motions. They said so to each other. The 
Corinthian heard their simple praises, and Josephine saw well 
that he did not hear them without emotion. She therefore desired 
to please all the dancers, in order to please the more him whom 
she preferred. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


217 


CHAPTER XXI. 

Pierre made vain efforts to tear the Corinthian from the dance. 
“ Let me exhaust this madness,” replied the young man to him. 
“ I assure you that I am still master of myself. Besides, it is 
the last time I will brave this danger. But look ; there she is 
alone in the midst of all these villagers, some of whom are excited 
by wine. That little Julia is not a sufficient safeguard for her; 
and if it were for me, as you think, that she has taken the risk 
of coming into this somewhat brutal crowd, would it not be my 
duty to watch over and protect her? Come, Pierre, a woman is 
always a woman, and the support of a man, whoever he may be, 
is always necessary to her.” 

L’Ami-du-trait was compelled to abandon the Corinthian to 
himself. He felt that he became more and more sad at the 
spectacle of that happiness full of perils and intoxication, which 
sadly awakened in him his hidden suffering. Then he asked 
himself if he had really a right to blame a weakness to which, 
in the secret of his thoughts, he had been so near yielding, and 
of which he could not, without falsehood, say that he was radi- 
cally cured. He buried himself in the park, consumed by a 
strange anxiety. 

He had wandered for some time at random, when he found 
himself, at the turn of an alley, not far from two persons who 
were walking in front of him. He recognised the dark dress and 
the rather peculiar voice of mademoiselle de Villepreux. It was 
an elegant and pure tone, usually devoid of inflexions, and 
but little vibrating. This organ was in harmony with the whole 
appearance of her person. But who was the man that gave her 
his arm ? He wore one of those cloaks then called quiroga, and 
a hat named d la Morillo. His firm step, as well as his costume, 
showed that it was not the count de Villepreux. Neither was 
it young Raoul : Pierre had just seen him pass in jacket and 


218 


THE COMPANION 


cap, with a gun, to kill rabbits on the spring. It might be a 
relative recently arrived at the chateau. Pierre continued to 
walk behind them at some distance. The obscurity of the 
alleys prevented his seeing them very clearly ; but, when they 
passed an open space, he could see the animated gestures of the 
man in the quiroga. He spoke with earnestness, and some 
notes of a resounding voice, which seemed not unknown to 
Pierre Huguenin, reached him from time to time. 

Perplexed and tormented, Pierre could not resist the desire of 
quickening his pace to hear them more nearly. But, as he 
passed through a dark place, he perceived, by the voices, that the 
promenaders were retracing their steps and approaching him 
nearer and nearer. He did not think he ought to avoid them, 
and soon, recalling his recollections, he recognised the voice, the 
gait, the quick and jerking tone of M. Achille Lefort, the patri- 
otic recruiter. 

As Achille passed quite near to Pierre, he pronounced these 
words with quite an animated accent : — 

“ No, certainly, I will not give up hope, and I am certain that 
M. the count — ” 

He interrupted himself on seeing Pierre walking in the 
side-alley. 

Mademoiselle de Villepreux bent forward, lowering her head 
a little, in the attitude that one assumes in seeking to recognise 
a person in the darkness. 

“ Here,” said she, stopping, “ here is the very person you 
wished to meet. I leave you together.” 

She disengaged her arm, returned to Pierre his silent salute, 
and wished to withdraw. 

“ In spite of all the pleasure I feel at meeting master Pierre,” 
said the travelling clerk, preparing to follow her, “ I cannot 
resolve to let you return alone to the chateau.” 

“ You forget that I am a country girl,” replied she, « and that 
I am accustomed to do without an escort. I will go to my 
father, who must have finished his siesta. Till we meet again.” 

Then she passed, as if intentionally, on the side opposite to 
Pierre, and took some steps running ; but soon, repressing this 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


219 


impulse of a vivacity which was not natural to her, she with- 
drew with a light, but equal and measured, pace. 

Pierre, quite confused at this double meeting, followed with 
his ear the slight noise of the sand which crackled under her 
feet, and did not hear the preamble by which Achille Lefort had 
opened the conversation. When he issued from this abstraction, 
he found that the good young man was saying to him the most 
obliging things in the world, and he reproached himself for 
answering with so much coldness. But, in spite of himself, on 
seeing him fall once again from the clouds, and present himself 
to his eye in the midst of an animated conversation with Yseult, 
he felt less sympathy for him than ever. 

“Well! my fine fellow,” said Achille to him, “have you 
already forgotten our joyous meeting at the Bower of wisdom ? 
What a worthy man father Vaudois is ! full of intelligence, of 
patriotism, of courage ! Give me some news of the old jacobin 
locksmith, who so offended your old pupil the captain ! and of 
your dignitary, for whom I have as much respect and esteem as 
if I were his son ! Tell me of all our friends ! I don’t ask you 
about the Corinthian : I have heard him spoken of at the cha- 
teau with such praises, that I should not be astonished to see 
him make a brilliant fortune at once. The whole family of 
Villepreux have their heads turned about him. They have 
already shown me his sculptures, and I am more charmed than 
surprised by them. I clearly perceived, on seeing him, that he 
was a great artist, a man of genius.” 

“ You testify an excess of benevolence which might be taken 
for irony,” replied Pierre, “ if I did not think I was not worth 
the trouble. Let us have a truce to all these compliments, and 
tell me, at once, if I can be of service to you, in this country, in 
any matter which concerns you personally. I do not think you 
have interrupted your promenade in order to talk with me about 
idle things ; and as to politics, you know that I understand no- 
thing about them.” 

« You understand jesting wonderfully well, Master Pierre, and 
if I were a child, I might allow myself to be disconcerted. But 
I am accustomed to read consciences ; I am a kind of father con- 
fessor, and I may say that I have confessed those who were more 


220 


THE COMPANION 


distrustful than you. You pretend that you know nothing about 
politics ? Certainly, if you judge those which prevail at this 
day by the strange incoherencies we recently heard at our sup- 
per with the Vaudois, you must feel pity for us all. Still I hope 
that you do not entirely confound me with the others.” 

“ The others are your friends, your associates — I should say, 
your accomplices , if I were a royalist. How can you hold them 
so cheap with me, whom you do not know ?” 

“ I know you very well, on the contrary. I did not seek to 
connect myself with you without studying your character, your 
sentiments, without having informed myself with the greatest 
detail respecting your conduct, at Blois towards your brothers the 
gavots. I know that, in your meetings, you were a great orator, 
a great philosopher, a great politician even ; and I could repeat 
to you, in part, the addresses by which you sought to deter them 
from the competition. Well ! master Pierre, your lot there was 
the same that might be my own, if I were, as you suppose, 
associated in some political devoir. You found yourself alone 
in your opinion, alone with your good sense and your good in- 
tentions, in the midst of persons otherwise estimable and worthy 
of all your friendship, but full of errors, of prejudices, and 
opposing passions. This is my answer to what you said just 
now about my pretended accomplices.” 

“ Listen, sir,” said Pierre, after having remained silent a mo- 
ment ; “ what you say may be true. But if you wish me to 
converse with you, you must speak to me without reserve. 
You do not suppose me so simple as to have regarded your ad- 
vances as a matter of pure sympathy between yourself and me. 
Praises have never turned my head. I do not ask of you the names 
of your associates ; I suppose that you must be bound by certain 
promises, as we are in our societies. I wish to believe that the 
persons with whom you made me acquainted are unconnected 
with any plot. But I wish you to tell me what is your object, — 
your own, personally ; for you either take me for a stupid fellow 
who will allow himself to be led blindfold (and, in that case, I 
must tell you that you are mistaken), or you know that I am 
incapable of acting the infamous part of an informer, and, in that 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


221 


case, you must not speak to me in riddles. I should not have 
time to seek for their solution.” 

“ So be it, my fine fellow ! I will speak as clearly as you 
wish. I do not ask you if you are secure from a moment of 
forgetfulness and trifling which might compromise my liberty 
and life ; 1 am satisfied of this beforehand, knowing that you are 
the most serious and, perhaps, the most delicate man in exist- 
ence. Besides, where I risk only my head, I am not accus- 
tomed to neglect my duty from prudence. What do you wish to 
know ?” 

“ Your real opinion, sir ; your principles, your political faith. 
I do not ask of you an account of the means by which you serve 
your cause — I know that you cannot reveal them ; but I wish to 
know your object : without that you will not move me more than 
a mountain.” 

“Faith transports mountains, my worthy comrade. I am, 
therefore, sure of moving you, for my faith is yours : I am a 
republican.” 

“ What do you mean by that ?” 

“ Strange question ! — what you yourself mean !” 

“ But what do I mean ? do you know ?” 

“ I presume ; and, besides, you will tell me.” 

“ Not so ; I shall wait for you to tell me your plan of a repub- 
lic, for I am certain you have one, otherwise you would not 
have set to work ; while I, who do nothing else from morning to 
night but saw boards and plane them, may never have thought 
of remodelling society.” 

“ You question me in rather an insidious manner, my good 
friend, observe that. If we agree at the bottom, we can under- 
stand each other by mutual revelations. If we do not, you pre- 
serve the right to counteract my projects, while I have no hold 
upon yours.” 

“ That is true, since, for myself, I have no projects. What 
shall we do, then ? If I tell you my ideas, and you wish to 
make use of me, you will be free to reply to me that they are 
exactly your own.” 

“ I will say what you said to me at first : either you have con- 
fidence in me, or — ” 


222 


THE COMPANION 


“ But why, then, should I have confidence in you ? Did I 
seek you ? Was I thinking of you when you accosted me on 
the bank of the Loire ? Was I searching for the republic just 
now, when you stopped me in this alley ? Do I insist, at this 
moment, on being initiated into your secrets ? Do you want 
anything of me, or do you not ? Speak or be silent.” 

“ You have a pitiless logic, and I see that I have to do with a 
strong mind. Well! I will speak; for, otherwise, the debate 
would become comic, and, to finish it according to our mutual 
pretensions, we should have to talk both together, which would 
not help us to understand each other. I begin : we have pro- 
nounced the word republic ; and at once we are stopped. What 
is the republic ? is it that of Plato ? is it that of Jesus Christ ? 
is it that of ancient Rome, or of ancient Sparta ? Is it that of the 
Thirteen Cantons ? is it that of the United States ? In fine, is it 
that of the French revolution, in which we can count fifteen or 
twenty forms of republic by turns tried, laid aside, and over- 
thrown ?” 

Here Achille Lefort stopped to breathe. The good young 
man was somewhat embarrassed for the definition he was 
required to give, and he hoped to bewilder his adversary by the 
power of learning ; but Pierre followed him very well, and 
nothing that he heard was strange to him. 

“ It is not, certainly, either of those forms which you have 
adopted,” replied he. “ You have too much judgment not to 
know that the republic of Plato, as well as those of Rome and 
Sparta, is impossible without helots, that of the Thirteen Cantons 
impossible without mountains, that of the United States without 
the slavery of the blacks, and that all those of our revolution are 
impossible without jailors and executioners. There remains, 
then, that of Jesus Christ, respecting which I should not be sorry 
to have your opinion.” 

“ That would, perhaps, be the most popular, if we understood 
the gospel,” replied Lefort ; “ but that also is impossible without 
priests. Thus all have for us a major objection, and we must 
find a new one.” 

“ That is the point,” said Pierre, seating himself upon the side 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


223 


of a ditch, and folding his arms. And he said to himself : “ Now 
I shall learn if this be a wise man or a fool.” 

Achille Lefort was neither the one nor the other. He was the 
man of his time, one of the thousands of brave youths, enterpris- 
ing, devoted, but ignorant and rash, whom France then saw 
spring from her laboring side. Influenced by a single patriotic 
idea, that of expelling the Bourbons and bringing back the insti- 
tutions to a more sincere liberalism, those courageous young 
men went forward at random, not caring to form theories imme- 
diately applicable, seeing nothing but the fact, which they deco- 
rated in those times with the name of principle (not really know- 
ing what a principle is), and obeying, nevertheless, that law of 
progress which drew all their numbers pell-mell, each with his 
little provision of scholastic philosophy and political passion : 
Voltaire, Adam Smith, Bentham ; the constituent, the conven- 
tion, the charter ; Brissot, La Fayette, the duke of Orleans, e 
tutti quanti. These young men had been led, in order to increase 
their numbers, to the idea of initiating into their secret societies 
the malcontents of the imperial party, a phalanx heroic in heart 
and limited in mind, who rather played the part of Bertrand in 
the fable of the chestnuts, and who avenge themselves at this day 
by turning the cannons and muskets of the restraining order 
against the revolutionizing republic. There was, therefore, at 
that time, an inevitable exchange of little tricks, of fallacious 
promises, and of transactions which may be called rather Jesuiti- 
cal, between the conspirators of different opinions and different 
shades. All was done with good intentions ; and, if it is per- 
mitted now to jest upon those episodes, we must not forget to 
make allowance for the laughing finesse and the good-natured 
rashness of the French character.* 

* Every historical period has two faces : one very poor, very ridiculous, 
or very unhappy, which is turned towards the calendar of the time ; the 
other, great, efficacious, serious, which looks towards that of eternity. 
We cannot better develop this thought, applied to the events to which we 
here refer, than by quoting a passage of M. Jean Reynaud upon carbonar- 
ism. If any one should accuse us of not treating with sufficient respect 
attempts which had their tragical periods and their crowned martyrs, we 
invoke this beautiful passage as the expression of our sympathy and of our 
final judgment : — “ Alas ! those plots cost us blood, and of the purest. It 


224 


THE COMPANION 


Achille Lefort, driven to the wall by the firm mind, the virgin 
conscience and the ardent thirst for truth which impelled the 
man of the people to know the word of the future, escaped from 
the contest as skilfully as he could ; and in spite of the impla- 
cable good sense of Pierre Huguenin, who also did not want 
finesse, succeeded in disengaging himself from his point without 
much damage or shame. Even while pretending to interrogate 
himself conscientiously (and the opportunity being a good one, 
Achille Lefort played this game seriously), he insensibly led Pierre 
to tell him his repugnances, his sympathies, his wishes, and to 
bring to light a world of questions which the mechanic had asked 
himself, and which had remained without answer, but which 
were not the less great questions, alone worthy of a great heart 
which desires, and of a great mind which searches. These light- 
nings which shot from his soul threw their light upon that of the 
young carbonaro. That brave youth, full of defects, of self-suf- 
ficiency, of bad taste and presumption, had none the less one of 
the purest consciences that could be found. His brain, full of 
enthusiasm and greedy of emotions, was kindled by the contact 
of that obscure man, who raised before him more fundamental 
problems than he had met upon his path since he had been in the 


was necessary that generous hearts should be prematurely condemned to 
the exile of the tomb, and that noble heads, offered up in holocaust, should 
bend sorrowfully beneath the heavy hand of the executioner. Their sacri- 
fice has not been useless to the world ; and posterity, in its commemora- 
tion of the dead, will preserve their names. No, your blood, 0 unfortunate 
patriots, has not been shed in vain ; since it has inspired all the friends of 
mankind with the desire to die with the same grandeur and for the same 
cause as you ; it has raised a testimony against monarchies, in the day 
when monarchies were powerful, and when those who were supposed to 
represent France bowed themselves before them ; it has marked in our 
annals with an ineffaceable sign, revolution re-appearing in the bosom 
of the people at the same instant with the sceptre in the hands of 
monarchs; it has gone, as a tribute of our age, to mingle with those sacred 
rivers formed of the blood of our fathers, and which, under our first repub- 
lic, watered our national frontier with an impassable enclosure ; and 
if there has been any glory in carbonarism, O Borie, Raoulx, Goubin, 
Pommier, Vallee, Caron, Berton, Caffe, Sauge, Jaglin, that glory is con- 
centrated entirely upon you, who alone appeared in the light of heaven, in 
order to fall under the cleaver of kings.” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


225 


world. He understood that here was something great ; and his 
charlatanism of friendship for the adept whom he wished to secure 
was changed into a real affection, into a boundless confidence. 

On his side, Pierre saw very well that if this was not the phi- 
losopher who could solve his questions, his was at least a good and 
generous nature. He saw also his errors and dared to tell him 
of them. Achille did not dare to be offended. He bent under 
the superiority of the mechanic, still without inwardly acknow- 
ledging it ; his self-love prevented him : and even while declar- 
ing to him that he looked upon him as his master, even while 
recognising him as such in his conscience, upon certain points, 
he still sought to dazzle him by his demonstrations of moral 
power, and his display of civic virtue. 

Their conversation was prolonged so late, that the fiddlers had 
departed, the village had gone to bed, the lights of the chateau 
had successively disappeared, and two in the morning sounded 
from the great clock, before they thought of separating. They 
promised to meet again the next day. Achille took the path to 
the chateau, and Pierre accompanied him as far as the door of a 
tower in which his apartment was prepared. It was only then 
that he gathered courage to ask him under what title, and upon 
what footing he was in the family de Villepreux. 

“ I have known the Villepreux for a long time,” replied 
Achille, with that familiar tone which belonged to him ; “ I have 
business with the old man.” 

“ And your acquaintance was made as between a man who 
buys wine and one who sells ? Do you really sell wine then ? ” 

‘♦Without doubt ! whence otherwise could I obtain my passport 
to enter everywhere, and my safety in travelling without bring- 
ing the police on my track ? I sell wines, and of every quality. 
With Sherry and Malvoisie, I enter the chateaus ; with brandy 
and rum the cafes, and even the village wineshops. How did I 
form an acquaintance with the Vaudois ? ” 

“ I do not ask you that. Have you been long accustomed to 
visit this chateau ? ” 

“ Five or six years ; I first stocked the cellar.” 

“ And at Paris, do you preserve your connexion with the fam- 
ily of Villepreux.” 

11 * 


226 


THE COMPANION 


“ Certainly. Does not that seem natural to you ? ” 

“ Oh ! Mon Dieu ! yes,” replied Pierre, with a little irony ; 
“ it is not necessary to invent any more.” 

“ How, invent ? What do you mean ? Would you suppose 
that I could have any political connexion with the old lord ? 
That would be very improbable, and besides you would not wish 
to question me upon a point in which I alone was not concerned.” 

“ I did not even think of it. Seeing you very much at your 
ease with the young lady of the chateau — ” 

“ Well, well, conclude ! what did you suppose ? She has 
mind, the little Yseult, has she not ? She told me that she had 
talked with you, and I don’t know all the good she said of you 
in three short and clear words, according to her custom. Queer 
girl ! do you think her pretty ? ” 

This manner of defining and analysing the person of whom 
Pierre could not think without trembling, caused such a revolu- 
tion in him that he remained for some moments without the power 
of answering. At last, as Achille insisted singularly, he replied 
that he had not looked at her. 

“ Well, look at her,” returned Achille, “ and afterwards I will 
tell you something.” 

“ You had better tell me at once, in order that I may remember 
to look at her,” replied Pierre, whose curiosity was vividly and 
painfully excited, but who did not wish to permit it to appear. 

Achille took his arm, and, withdrawing from the chateau, 
led him to some distance with an air of merry mystery which 
made Pierre Huguenin suffer a thousand tortures. When they 
were at a sufficient distance : 

“ You have never heard anything about her ?” said Achille, in 
a low voice. 

“ Nothing at all,” replied Pierre ; and, as he feared the other 
might not wish to continue his prating, he immediately added, to 
set him off again : “ Ah ! yes ; I have been told that she had a 
great passion in her heart for a young man whom they would 
not let her marry.” 

“ Ah ! bah ! really ?” cried Achille. “ I never heard of that ; 
it may be possible — why not ? But I know nothing about it.” 

“ What have you to tell me then ?” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


227 


“ Something very particular. Do you know whose daughter 
people say she is ?” 

“ I do not know.” 

“ The emperor Napoleon’s, neither more nor less.” 

“ How could that be ?” 

“ Very naturally. Her father, the old count’s son, married a 
young lady attached to the empress Josephine’s household ; so 
that the first child of that marriage, if the chronicle is to be be- 
lieved, might be born a little earlier than was correct, and could 
have in the lines of her profile a softened resemblance to the 
Corsican eagle. How does it seem to you ?” 

“ Nothing ; I never remarked that. Still, the hauteur of her 
character would make me believe she might well have the blood 
of some despot in her veins ?” 

“ Is she disdainful or mocking ?” 

“ I ask you : you know her very well, and I not the least in 
the world. In my position with regard to her, I cannot — ” 

“ But is she considered disdainful here ?” 

“ Rather.” 

“ And you — how does she seem to you ?” 

“ Peculiar.” 

“Yes, peculiar, is she not? of a fantastic seriousness, of an 
enigmatical good sense ; cold, proud ; the very nature of a prin- 
cess.” 

“ You have studied her a great deal ! — ” 

“ I ! I have not taken the trouble. Look you, my dear, I 
have no time to dance attendance on a woman. The life I lead 
compels me never to bestow much attention on those who do 
nothing to attract me. The daughter of Napoleon is not worth 
a pipe of tobacco for me, if, instead of pleasing, she tries to daz- 
zle me. There is a litttle person here who would turn my head 
if I permitted it. That is the delightful marchioness. But, the 
devil ! I shall be obliged to leave in a week. It is best to let 
her alone, is it not ? You, who are virtuous — ” 

“You — you are a coxcomb,” said Pierre, in a firm tone, the 
frankness of which made the travelling clerk burst into a loud 
laugh. 

This kind of frivolous conversation was by no means to the 


228 


THE COMPANION 


taste of the grave and impassioned artisan. He definitively bade 
good night to his new friend, and took the road to the village 
across the park. 

But it was impossible for him to effect his exit. The park was 
closed on all sides. It was not absolutely difficult to climb over 
the wall ; but Pierre felt himself seized with such a nonchalance 
of mind, that it was almost indifferent to him whether he passed 
the night in the park or in his bed. He there had, in the event 
of a storm (the weather was threatening), the resource of shel- 
tering himself in the workshop, a key of which he always had 
with him. Feeling led, by this unaccustomed languor, rather to 
revery than to sleep, he buried himself in the thickest of the 
wood, and continued to wander slowly, sometimes seating him- 
self on the moss to relieve the weariness of his legs, sometimes 
resuming his walk in obedience to the uneasiness of his mind. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


229 


CHAPTER XXII. 

At first his revery was vague and melancholy. The last im- 
pression under which he had remained on leaving Achille Lefort 
was that discovery, or that fable, of mademoiselle de Villepreux’s 
illustrious illegitimacy. Pierre could not help going over in his 
head all the romances he had read, and he found none among 
them so strange as that which he had made in the secret of his 
heart, he, enamored and almost jealous of the daughter of Csesar. 

“ Singular destiny for her/’ said he to himself, “ if she be and 
if she feel herself in any degree cut from the side of the colossus, 
to find herself placed between a mechanic who dares to admire 
her, and a travelling clerk who permits himself to disdain her. 
How her pride would suffer, if what passes about her could be 
revealed to her.” 

And yet the words he had heard from the mouth of Achille, at 
the moment when his conversation with mademoiselle de Ville- 
preux was broken off, returned to give him anxiety. “ Perhaps 
he is more crafty than he seems ?” said he to himself ; “ perhaps 
it is he whom she loves, and against the wishes of her family ? 
perhaps he pretends not to care for her in order to conceal his 
happiness ?” And immediately Pierre found a thousand good 
reasons to persuade himself that it was so. But by what right 
did he seek to penetrate a secret which might be serious and 
worthy of respect ? “ If,” said he to himself, “ she did love a 

man without birth and without fortune, as he declares himself to 
be, would it not be a very delicate and very romantic thing, this 
semblance of pride, this reserve with all the world, this air of 
indifference for all that is not he ? Ought I not to forgive her 
the evil she has done me, without intending it, without knowing 
it perhaps ?” And, even while compelling himself to be inte- 
rested in the presumed happiness of Achille Lefort, Pierre felt 
that he was ill and despairing. It was during this night of sleep- 


230 


THE COMPANION 


lessness and torment that he at last confessed to himself that he 
loved passionately, and had full consciousness of his madness. 

Still the terror which he felt at this discovery was soon dissi- 
pated. As happens in great crises where the clear view of dan- 
ger reanimates our strength and reawakens our prudence, he felt 
return to him by degrees the will and the power to struggle 
against the chimera of his imagination. He resolved to drive 
away this vain phantom, and to turn his thoughts to the more 
serious subjects on which he had conversed with Achille during 
the whole evening. 

He succeeded in becoming absorbed with these new reflections ; 
but he only changed his suffering. There was such a vagueness 
in the brain of the carbonaro, that he had left only incoherence 
and confusion in that of Jus neophyte. The eagerness of mind 
with which Pierre endeavored to unravel something in the 
chaos of theories which Achille had shuffled before him like a 
pack of cards, gave him a kind of fever. His ideas became 
obscured ; the discomfort which nature seems to experience at 
the approach of day passed into him ; and he threw himself at 
full length upon the moss, oppressed, overpowered, and receiving, 
as a shock in his whole being, the deep and exquisite sorrows of 
Ren6 and Childe Harold, to which the law of the ages initiated 
him, him a simple workman, without more reserve than if society 
had formed him for sufferings of the mind, instead of destining 
him exclusively to those of the body. 

When day appeared, and a feeble light spread over the objects 
about him, he felt, if not solaced, at least more gently moved. 
The storm had passed over ; the dry and heavy atmosphere was 
moistened with the freshness of morning, and the breezes of the 
dawn seemed to sweep away the cares of night. Natures 
formed in the robust sphere of the people live much by the 
senses, and this power is a perfecting of the being when united 
with that of intelligence. The absence of brightness during 
quite a long succession of hours, had contributed much to Pierre’s 
sadness. When light spread over nature, he felt himself born 
again, and admired, with a kind of artist’s transport, that beauti- 
ful park, those immense trees in their foliage and freshness, that 
smooth grass, green in the middle of summer as in the first days 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


231 


of spring, those paths without stones and without thorns, all that 
well tended, luxurious, and ornamented nature of our modem gar- 
dens. 

But his admiration recalled him by degrees to the problem 
which had besieged him during the whole night. 

He had read, in the philosophers and in the poets of the last 
century, that the cabin of the laborer , the meadow enamelled with 
flowers , and the field covered with gleaners, were much more 
beautiful than the flower beds, the straight alleys, the trimmed 
bushes, the combed grass, and the basins ornamented with statues, 
which surround the palace of the great ; and he had allowed him- 
self to believe it, for this idea pleased him then. But, compelled 
to traverse France, on foot and in all seasons, he had found that 
this nature so much praised in the eighteenth century really ex- 
isted nowhere, upon a soil infinitely divided and unworthily tor- 
tured by individual necessities. If, from the summit of a hill, 
he had contemplated with delight a certain extent of country, the 
reason was that, in the distance, that division is effaced and con- 
founded to the view ; the masses recover their appearance of 
grandeur and harmony ; the beautiful primitive forms of the 
region, the rich color of the vegetation which man cannot de- 
stroy, overpower and conceal at a distance the miserable mutila- 
tion they have undergone. But on approaching these details, on 
penetrating these perspectives, our traveller had always expe- 
rienced a complete disenchantment : that which, from afar, had 
the aspect of a virgin forest, near at hand was only a succession 
of trees unskilfully planted upon the awkward margins of enclo- 
sures. Those trees themselves were stripped of their most beau- 
tiful branches, and had no form. The picturesque huts were 
dirty, surrounded by pools of stagnant water, deprived of natural 
shelter against the wind or the sun. Nothing was in its place. 
The house of the rich man destroyed the simplicity of the coun- 
try ; the cabin of the poor man took from the chateau all charac- 
ter of isolation and grandeur. The finest field often wanted 
grass and freshness, for want of a thread of water which the 
occupier had not the right or the means of borrowing from the 
neighboring stream. No harmony, no taste, and, above all, no 
real fertility. Everywhere the soil, given up to ignorance or 


232 


THE COMPANION 


cupidity, was exhausted without yielding abundance, or, indeed, 
abandoned to the poor man’s want of means, was burnt up in a 
yearly drought. And for the traveller, not a path which he was 
not obliged to seek and secure in some manner by his memory 
or by the agility of his body ; for everything is closed, every- 
thing is forbidden, everything bristles with thorns, and is sur- 
rounded by ditches and palisades. The least corner of soil is a 
fortress, and the law makes a trespass of each step risked by a 
man upon the jealous and savage property of another man. 
“ This, then, is nature, as we have made it,” thought Pierre 
Huguenin, when he traversed these deserts created by mankind. 
“ Would God recognise his work ? Is this the beautiful terrestrial 
paradise which he has intrusted to us to embellish and extend 
from horizon to horizon, over the whole face of the globe ?” 

Sometimes he had crossed mountains, skirted torrents, wander- 
ed in thick woods. There only where nature preserves herself 
rebellious to the invasion of man by resisting cultivation, has she 
retained her strength and beauty. “ Whence is it, then,” said he 
to himself, “ that the hand of man is cursed, and that, there only 
where it does not govern, the earth recovers its luxury and is 
clothed with its grandeur ? Is labor, then, contrary to the divine 
laws, or is it indeed the law to labor in sorrow, and to be able to 
create only ugliness and poverty, to dry up instead of producing, 
to destroy instead of building ? Is this very truly then the val- 
ley of tears of which Christians speak, and have we been cast 
into it to expiate crimes anterior to this fatal life ?” 

Pierre Huguenin had often lost himself in these bitter thoughts, 
and he had not been able to find a solution. For, if large pro- 
perties are the best preservers of nature, if they effect with more 
breadth and science the work of human labor, they are none the 
less a monstrous injury to the imperishable right of humanity. 
They dispose of the domain of all to the profit of a few ; they 
insolently devour the life of the weak and of the disinherited, 
who cry in vain to heaven for vengeance. “ And yet,” said he 
to himself, “ the more we divide, the more the soil perishes ; the 
more we assure the existence of each of its members, the more 
the whole of humanity languishes and suffers. Chateaus have 
been razed, wheat has been sown in the signoral parks ; each one 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


233 


has taken for himself a shred of the spoil, and has thought him- 
self saved. But from beneath each stone has come a swarm of 
hungry poor, and the earth is now too small. The rich are 
ruined and disappear in vain. The more the bread is broken, 
the more hands are stretched forth to receive it, and the miracle 
of Jesus is no longer worked : n-o one is satisfied ; the soil dries 
up, and man with the soil. In vain does industry display mar- 
vellous strength; it excites necessities which it cannot satisfy; it 
bestows delights in which the human family cannot share with- 
out imposing on itself, at other points, privations until then un- 
known. Work is everywhere created, and everywhere misery 
increases. It seems as if we have the right to regret feudal 
times, which fed the slave without exhausting him, and which, 
preserving him from the torments of a vain hope, sheltered him 
at least from despair and suicide. 

These contradictory reflections, these sad uncertainties, return- 
ed to Pierre in proportion as he saw the beauties of the signoral 
park of Villepreux revealed by the morning light. In spite of 
himself he compared the care and intelligence which had 
prevailed in the arrangement of this nature to the effect of edu- 
cation upon the character and mind of man. By cutting in the 
useless branches of those trees, there had been given to them the 
gracefulness, the health and the majestic stature which is secured 
to them by the climate in more favorable regions than our own. 
By frequently mowing and incessantly watering that turf, there 
had been given to it the admirable freshness which it receives 
from the fall of abundant waters upon the mountain slopes. 
Flowers and fruits of different regions had been there acclimated 
by a proper allowance of air, of light, or shade. It was a facti- 
tious nature, but one studied with art to resemble free nature 
without losing those conditions of well-being, of protection, of order 
and of charm, which it must have in order to serve as a sphere 
and a shelter for civilized humanity. There was found all the 
beauty of God’s work, and there was felt the hand of man, go- 
verning with love, preserving with discernment. Pierre agreed 
within himself that, in our climate, nothing more resembles the 
true divine creation — Nature, in one word, such as it has been de- 
fined by the philosophers who have taken that word Nature for 


234 


THE COMPANION 


their banner, than a garden cultivated in this manner ; while 
nothing is so far removed from it as the cultivation made neces- 
sary by territorial division and the parcelling out of small pro- 
perties. In quite large and constantly stirred clearings grain 
was sowed, the strength and abundance of which had been in- 
creased ten-fold by the richness of the cultivation. The game, 
protected by the wise foresight of the master, was sufficiently 
abundant to furnish his table without compromising the products 
of the soil. This was therefore truly the idealization and not 
the mutilation of nature. It was production well understood, 
properly divided, and sufficiently assisted. It was the utile dulci 
of patrician life, which should be the normal life of all polished 
men. 

It was therefore necessary to recognise the fact that this was 
the abode and the property of a family which lived there simply, 
nobly, and in a manner entirely conformable to providential laws. 
And yet no poor man could, or would, look upon it without hatred 
and without envy ; and if the law of force did not protect the 
rich, there is no poor man who would not consider and would not 
feel that the violation of that abode and the pillage of that pro- 
perty were legitimate acts. How then to reconcile these two 
principles : the right of the happy man to the preservation of his 
happiness, the right of the miserable man to the cessation of his 
misery ? 

Both seem equally the children of God, his representatives 
upon the earth, the agents whom he has invested with universal 
property and cultivation. That rich old man, who rests his white 
head, and who educates his children under the shadow of the trees 
he has planted, would it not be a crime to tear him from his 
domain and cast him naked and a beggar upon the highway ? 
And yet that beggar, old also, also the father of a family, who 
extends his hand for charity at the gate of the rich man, is it not 
also a crime to let him perish with cold, with hunger, and sorrow 
upon the highway ? 

Shall we say that this rich man has enjoyed his fortune long 
enough, and that it is the turn of the poor man to take his place at the 
banquet of life ? W ould this tardy enjoyment efface in the poor man 
the trace of the long privations he has undergone ? Could it cancel 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


235 


for him the debt of the past, compensate him for the evils he has 
suffered, and repair the disorders which misfortune has inflicted 
upon his understanding ? 

Shall we say that this poor man has endured enough of suffering, 
and that it is the turn of the rich man to yield to him his place at 
the banquet of life ? Because the rich man has enjoyed the gifts 
of God until this day, does it follow that he ought to be violently 
torn from them, and condemned to misery ? Does this necessity 
of enjoyment, which the Eternal has placed in the heart of man 
as a right, and doubtless as a duty, constitute a crime for which 
he should be punished, and which other men have a right to make 
him expiate ? 

Besides, if the poor man has a right to happiness, this rich man 
whom you will have made poor will immediately have the right 
to claim his share of happiness, and the right of the now rich 
man will be founded, like that of his predecessor, upon will and 
power. It will therefore be necessary to stifle the complaint and 
the rebellion of this new poor man by war, and the only possible 
end of such a war will be the extermination of the dispossessed 
rich man. Accept this savage solution : the earth is as yet swept 
by only a small minority, it remains still overcharged with a 
multitude of individual necessities which it cannot satisfy on the 
same conditions as those hitherto imposed. Those whom the 
pillage will have enriched, and this will still be a minority, will 
hear groan and blaspheme at their gates those who have gained 
nothing by the conquest, and these will still be the most numerous. 
You will repress them by force for a short time ; but they will 
multiply like kernels of wheat, they will increase like the waves 
of the sea ; and each generation will therefore change masters 
without seeing close the yawning, unfathomable abyss, whence 
will issue without ceasing the voice of suffering humanity, a long 
cry of despair, of malediction, of insult, and of threat ! Must 
we therefore abandon ourselves upon this fatal declivity, where 
punishments succeed to punishments, disasters to disasters, victims 
to victims? or must we indeed leave things as they are, perpetuate 
the iniquity of exclusive right, of unequal distribution, place a 
privileged caste upon immovable thrones, and condemn the na- 
tions to misery, the scaffold, or the gallies ? 


236 


THE COMPANION 


Let us return therefore to the division of which our fathers 
dreamed. The earth was divided by them ; let us divide it 
still more ; our children will divide it infinitely, for they will 
still multiply, and each generation will demand a new division 
which will always reduce still more the narrow domain of their 
ancestors, and the inheritance of their descendants. The time 
will be, then, when each man will be the owner of a grain of 
sand, unless famine and all the causes of destruction engendered 
by barbarism shall seasonably come, in each generation, to deci- 
mate the population. And, as barbarism is the inevitable result 
of division and absolute individualism, the future of humanity 
rests upon the plague, war, inundations, all the scourges which 
will tend to bring back the infancy of the world, the sparseness of 
the human race, the wild empire of nature, the dissemination 
and brutishness of savage life. More than one brain of the nine- 
teenth century, not considered ferocious or deranged, has arrived 
at this absurd and anti-human conclusion, for want of finding a 
better, whether starting from the social or from the individual 
point of view. 

In the midst of all these hypotheses, the brave Pierre, unable 
to contemplate either without fear and without horror, was seized 
by a fit of despair. He forgot the hour which advanced and the 
sun which, rising above the horizon, measured out to him his task 
of labor. He fell with his face to the ground, and wrung his 
hands while he shed torrents of tears. 

He had been there a long while when, on raising his head to 
look at heaven with anguish, he saw before him an apparition 
which, in his delirium, he took for the genius of the earth. It 
was an aerial figure, whose light steps hardly bowed the grass, 
and whose arms were laden with a sheaf of the most beautiful 
flowers. He rose suddenly, and Yseult, for it was she who was 
peacefully gathering her poetical morning harvest, let fall her 
basket, and. stood before him, pale, stupefied, and entirely sur- 
rounded by the flowers which covered the turf at her feet. On 
recovering his reason and recognising her who had done him so 
much harm, Pierre wished to fly ; but Yesult placed upon his 
hand a hand cold as the morning, and said to him in an agitated 
voice : 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


237 


“ You are very ill, sir, or you have met with some great mis- 
fortune. Tell me what has happened to you, or come and confide 
it to my father ; he will endeavor to remedy it. He will give 
you good advice, and his friendship may perhaps do you good.” 

“ Your friendship, madam !” cried Pierre, still wandering, and 
in a bitter tone, “ is friendship possible between you and me ?” 

“ I do not speak to you of myself,” said mademoiselle dfe 
Villepreux sadly ; “ T have no right to offer you my interest. I 
know very well that you would not accept it.” 

“ But whom have I told that I am unhappy ?” cried Pierre with 
a kind of delirium which confusion and pride dissipated by 
degrees. “ Am I unhappy ?” 

“ Your face is still covered with tears, and it was the sound of 
your sobs that drew me towards you.” 

“ You are good, mademoiselle, very good, in truth ! But there 
is a world between us. M. your father, whom I respect with my 
whole soul, would not understand me any better. If I had in- 
curred debts, he could pay them ; if I wanted bread or work, he 
could procure both for me ; if I were ill or wounded, I know that 
your noble hands would not disdain to succor me. But if I had 
lost my father, your’s could not fill his place for me.” 

“ O mon Dieu !” cried Yseult, with a sympathy of which Pierre 
would have never thought her capable, “is father Huguenin dead ? 
O poor, poor son, how I pity you !” 

“ No, my dear young lady,” replied Pierre, with simplicity and 
gentleness; “my father is well, thanks to the good God. I 
merely wished to say that if I had lost a friend, a brother, your 
worthy father could not replace him.” 

“Well, you are mistaken, master Pierre. My father might 
become your best friend. You do not know him ; you do not 
know that my father is devoid of prejudice, and that, wherever 
he meets with merit, with elevation of feelings and ideas, there 
he recognises his equal. I wish you could hear him speak of 
you and your friend the sculptor : you would no longer feel that 
distrust and aversion towards our class which I now divine in 
you, and which afflicts me more than you can imagine.” 

Pierre would have had many things to answer under other 
circumstances ; but this agitating meeting and these remarks of 


238 


THE COMPANION 


interest at a moment when his heart was broken with grief, were 
a diversion which he had not strength to repel, a balm the sweet- 
ness of which he felt penetrate his soul in spite of himself. 
Weakened by his tears, and almost terrified by Yseult’s good- 
ness, he supported himself against a tree, tottering and over- 
powered. She still stood before him, ready to withdraw as soon 
as she should see him calm, but unable to resolve to leave him 
after a bitter word. And, as she saw him with his eyes cast 
down, his chest still swelling, in the attitude of a man overcome 
with fatigue who has not strength to resume his burden and walk, 
she added to what she had said : 

“ I see that you are made very unhappy and, one would say, 
almost humiliated by my sympathy. This perhaps is my fault, 
and I fear I have deserved what happens to me.” 

Pierre, astonished at these words, raised his eyes, and saw her 
become pale and red by turns, suffering from an inward struggle 
to which her pride made earnest resistance. Nevertheless, there 
was so much nobleness and courage in the expression of her re- 
pentance, that Pierre felt all his resentment disappear ; but he 
wished to be sincere. 

“I understand you, mademoiselle,” said he with that confi- 
dence which the feeling of his dignity always restored to him. 
“ It is very true that you uselessly wounded an already suffering 
soul. It was not necessary to remind me of the respect I owe 
you, and your reply to madam des Frenays did not persuade me 
that I was not a human creature. No, no ! the artisan and the 
wood he fashions with his hands are not absolutely the same 
thing. You were not alone the other day, for you were with a 
being who understood your affable goodness and prostrated him- 
self before it. But I swear to you that this painful recollection 
had nothing to do with the attack of grief and madness in which 
you surprised me.” 

“ And now,” said Yseult, “ can you forgive me for a fault 
which nothing can justify ?” 

Pierre, conquered by so much humility, looked at her again. 
She stood before him with her hands clasped, her head bowed, 
and two large tears rolled down her cheeks. He rose, seized 
with a generous transport. “ Oh ! may God love and bless you, 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


239 


as I esteem and absolve you !” cried he raising his hands above 
the bent head of the young girl. “ But it is too much, too much 
at once !” added he, falling on his knees and closing his eyes. 

In fact, too many emotions had prostrated him. Yseult could 
not imagine the fanaticism of virtue and the exaltation of love 
which fermented together in that enthusiastic soul. She uttered 
a cry on seeing him become pale as the lilies of her basket, and fall 
at her feet, suffocated, drunk with joy and terror, fainting at first 
and soon the victim of a nervous crisis which drew from him 
stifled cries and fresh torrents of tears. 

When he returned to himself, he saw at some steps from him, 
mademoiselle de Villepreux even more pale than he was, terri- 
fied and dismayed at the same time, ready to run and call as- 
sistance, but chained to the spot, doubtless by the hope of being 
more directly useful to that suffering soul by moral consolations, 
than by material cares. Ashamed of the weakness he had 
shown, Pierre besought her, as soon as he could speak, to think 
no more of him ; but she remained and did not answer. Her 
face had an expression of profound sadness, her look was almost 
gloomy. 

“ You are very unhappy !” she repeated several times, “ and 
I can do you no good ?” 

“ No, no ! you cannot,” replied Pierre. 

Then Yseult made a step towards him ; and after some mo- 
ments of hesitation, while he wiped his face bathed in sweat and 
tears : 

“ Master Huguenin,” said she to him, “ on your soul and 
conscience*, do you think you ought not to tell me the occasion 
of your tears ? If you reply that you ought not, I will not 
question you further.” 

“ I swear to you, upon my honor, that I weep at present with- 
out any real cause, as it seems to me. I really do not know 
why I feel myself so cast down, and it would be impossible for 
me to explain it to you.” 

“ But just now,” resumed Yseult, with effort, “ when I sur- 
prised you in the same state into which you have again fallen, 
what was the matter ? Is it then a secret that you could not 
confide to me ?” 


240 


THE COMPANION 


“ I could do so, and you would see that my thoughts are not 
unworthy of your attention likewise. 5 ’ 

“But would you not be willing to confide those thoughts to my 
father V’ 

“ I could speak them aloud and before the whole world ; but 
I do not know if there would be in the whole world a single man 
who could reply to them . 55 

“ For myself, I believe that man lives, and that it is he of 
whom I speak to you. He is the most just, the most enlightened, 
and the best whom I know ; you must consider it quite natural 
in me to recommend him to you. Listen : in two hours he will 
come and take his seat under that linden which you see there, 
at the garden gate. He comes there every day in fine weather 
to breakfast, read his newspapers, and talk with me. Will you 
come and talk also ? If I disturb you, I will leave you alone 
with him ? 55 

“ Thanks ! thanks ! 55 replied Pierre. “ You wish to do me 
good ; you are charitable, as I know. I know also that your 
father is learned, that he is wise and generous ; but I am per- 
haps too crazy and too ill to free my mind from a cruel anxiety. 
Besides, I have a better counsellor ; I interrogate him often, 
and I hope that he will at last reply to me. That counsellor is 
God !” 

“ May he assist you ! 55 replied Yseult ; “ I will pray to him 
for you . 55 

And she departed, after having timidly saluted him ; but, 
while retiring, she stopped and turned several times in order to 
assure herself that he did not again fall into delirium. Pierre, 
seeing this delicate and frank solicitude, rose to reassure her, 
and took the road to the workshop. But, as soon as he saw 
Yseult re-enter the chateau by another door, he returned and 
gathered some of the flowers she had left upon the grass. He 
hid them in his bosom like relics, and went to resume his work. 
But he had no strength. Besides that he was fasting, having no 
desire nor courage to go to breakfast ; he was bruised in all his 
bones ; and if the intoxication of an irresistible love had not 
come to sustain him, he would have deserted the workshop. 

“ What is the matter with you ?” asked father Huguenin, who 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


241 


remarked the alteration of his features, and the languidness of 
his labor. “ You are ill ; you must go and rest.” 

“ Father,” replied poor Pierre, “ I have no more courage to- 
day than a woman, and I work like a slave. Let me sleep a 
little while on the shavings, and perhaps I shall be better when 
you wake me.” 

Amaury, the Berrichon, and the apprentices made a bed for 
him of their vests and blouses, promising to make up for his 
time, and he fell asleep to the sound of the saw and hammer, 
which was too familiar to him to interrupt his slumber. 

12 


242 


THE COMPANION 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

There are very simple circumstances which are connected, ir 
the remembrance of each one of us, with crises in our intellec 
tual life, with transformations of our moral being ; and, howevei 
subject our existence may be to the coldest reality, there is no 
one of us who has not had his hour of ecstasy and revelation, in 
which his soul has been retempered, and in which his future 
destiny has been unveiled as by a miracle. This inward world 
which we bear within us is full of mysteries and profound ora- 
cles. We read therein more or less vaguely ; but there is al- 
ways an epoch, an hour, an instant perhaps, in which, it may be 
from faith in God, it may be from meditation upon social matters, it 
may be from love, a divine brightness penetrates like lightning 
the darkness of the understanding. In elevated and contemplative 
natures, this crisis is solemn, and recurs, in all the great phases 
of their destiny, to place a decided limit between the distresses 
of yesterday and the attainments of to-morrow. The metaphy- 
sician and the geometrician, lost in the search after abstractions, 
have their sudden and marvellous revelations, as well as the 
religious fanatic, as well as the lover and the poet. Why should 
not the man of charity and devotedness, whose heart and brain 
labor to discover the truth, be assisted in his task by that Spirit 
of the Lord which, in reality, hovers over all souls, piercing with 
its divine fire the vault of dungeons and of cells, the roof of 
workshops and of garrets, as well as the dome of palaces and 
of temples ? 

Pierre Huguenin remembered all his life with a profound 
emotion that hour of slumber upon the shavings of the workshop. 
And yet nothing extraordinary took place around him. The 
plane and the chisel travelled victoriously as usual over the re- 
bellious and plaintive wood. The workmen covered their mus- 
cular arms with sweat, and the consoling song circulated, regu- 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


243 


lating by its rhythm the action of their labor, evoking poetry in 
the midst of fatigue and contention of mind. But, while these 
things followed their natural course, the heavens opened above 
the head of the proletary apostle, and his soul took its flight to- 
wards the regions of the ideal world. He had a strange dream. 
It seemed to him that he was lying, not upon shavings, but upon 
flowers. And those flowers grew, opened, became more and 
more sweet and magnificent, and mounted blooming towards 
heaven. Soon they were gigantic trees which perfumed the air 
and, scaling in an abyss of verdure, attained the splendors of the 
empyrean. The mind of the sleeper, borne by the flowers, as- 
cended like them towards heaven, and rose, happy and power- 
ful, with this vegetation without repose and without limit. At 
last he reached a height whence he discovered the whole face of 
a new earth ; and that earth was, like the path which had led 
him thither, an ocean of verdure, of fruits, and of flowers. All 
that which Pierre, a traveller upon the earth of mankind, had 
found most poetical in the sublime mountains and in the smiling 
vallies, was collected there, but with more variety, richness and 
grandeur. Abundant waters, pure as crystal, flowed from all 
the heights, ran and crossed each other joyously upon all the 
slopes and in all the depths. Buildings of an elegant architec- 
ture, admirable monuments, adorned with master pieces of all 
the arts, rose from all points of this universal garden, and beings 
which seemed more beautiful and more pure than the human 
race, all busy and all joyous, animated it with their labors and 
their concerts. Pierre traversed all this unknown world with 
the rapidity of a bird ; and wherever his spirit passed, he saw 
fecundity, happiness, and peace flourish under new forms. Then 
a being, which flew by his side for a long while without his re- 
cognising it, said to him : “ You are at last in the heaven you 
have so much desired tp possess, and you are among angels, for 
the times are accomplished. An eternity succeeds an eternity ; 
and when you return at the end of this one, you will see still 
other wonders, another heaven and other angels.” Then Pierre, 
opening his eyes, recognised the place where he was and the 
being who spoke to him. It was the park of Villepreux, and it 
was Yseult ; but that park touched the confines of heaven and 


244 


THE COMPANION 


of earth, and Yseult was an angel radiant with wisdom and 
beauty. And on looking attentively at the angels who passed, 
he recognised his father and the father of Yseult, walking arm 
in arm ; he recognised Amaury and Romanet, who were con- 
versing amicably ; he recognised the Savinienne and the mar- 
chioness, who were gathering flowers in the same basket ; he 
recognised, in fine, all those whom he loved and all those whom 
he knew, but transformed and idealized. And he asked him- 
self what miracle had been wrought in them, that they should be 
so clothed with beauty, with strength, and with love. Then 
Yseult said to him : “ Do you not see that we are all brothers, 
all rich and all equal ? The earth has again become heaven, 
because we have destroyed all the thorns of the ditches, and all 
the fences of the enclosures ; we have again become angels, 
because we have effaced all distinctions and abjured all re- 
sentments. Love, believe, work, and you will be an angel in 
this world of angels.” 

“ What is the matter with him that he sleeps thus with his 
eyes open ? He seems as if he were dreaming in a fever. 
Wake up entirely, Pierre, that will be better for you than to 
tremble and sigh as you do.” 

Thus spoke father Huguenin, and he shook his son to wake 
him. Pierre obeyed mechanically, and rose ; but the heavens 
were not yet closed for him. He no longer slept ; but he still 
saw ideal forms pass around him, and the harmony of the sacred 
lyres resounded in his ears. He was standing, and his vision 
was hardly dissipated. He was especially struck by the per- 
fume of flowers which followed him even into reality. 

“ Do you not perceive the odor of roses and lilies ?” said he 
to his father, who looked at him with an uneasy air. 

“ I think so, indeed,” said father Huguenin ; “ your shirt is 
full of flowers ; one would say that you wished to make your 
chest an altar for the Fete-Dieu.” 

Pierre, in fact, saw Yseult’s flowers escape from his bosom 
and fall at his feet. 

“ Ah !” said he, gathering them up, this is what procured for 
me that beautiful dream !” And without complaining that he 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


245 


had been interrupted, he resumed his work full of strength and 
ardor. 

But he was soon called to go to the count de Villepreux upon 
some pretext relative to his work, and he went without suspect- 
ing the earnest desire experienced by the old patrician to con- 
verse at his ease, and without compromising himself, with the 
man of the people. To explain this fancy of the count’s, it is 
good to let the reader know something of the previous life of 
this strange old man. 

Son of one of the nobles attached to the fortunes and the con- 
spiracy of Phillipe-Egalite, he had indirectly followed all the 
phases of that conspiracy during the revolution. He concealed 
himself in order not to share the fate of his father, when the 
latter expiated on the scaffold his connexion with the prince. 
He afterwards extricated himself by degrees from that party with 
rare good luck, and insensibly recovered his standing with the 
9th Thermidor. Under the empire he was a prefect, but not of 
the best ; that is to say, that without making objections to the 
violent decrees of the government, he had been led, by his easy 
and good-natured character, to display more gentleness and 
humanity than was consistent with his office. Dismissed at the 
south, he had owed to the protection of M. de Talleyrand, who 
liked his wit, and who laid great stress upon the death of Eugene 
Villepreux (the son of our old count, and Yseult’s father, killed 
in service during the war with Spain), the compensation of a 
more important prefecture. His fortune had increased in these 
employments, and in lucky speculations, for which he had both 
the taste and the intelligence. Dismissed at the return of the 
Bourbons — in bad odor with a party which reproached him for 
his conduct during the revolution and his position under the 
empire, he assumed an attitude of liberal opposition. He had 
missed the peerage, he despised or affected to despise it, and 
procured himself to be chosen deputy. 

The nobles of his family and his neighborhood accused him 
of littleness of mind, of perfidy and ambition, while the liberals 
attributed to him great strength of mind, an entirely republican 
energy, and profound views in politics. We must say very 


246 


THE COMPANION 


quickly that the good old lord, a man of wit, and a charming 
parlor orator, deserved 

“ Neither this excess of honor, nor this indignity.” 

He made an opposition of good taste, and without brilliancy. He 
had so much wit and good humor, that it was a pleasure to hear 
him mock at power, at the royal family, at the favorites, or the 
prelates in favor. When he thus gave loose to his satire, all 
Voltaire was resuscitated in his features and his person, and 
there was no liberal elector who could have refused his vote to a 
candidate that had made him dine so well, and laugh so heartily. 
The act which threw the best light upon his political character 
was that which had brought him to his manor of Villepreux at 
the period when we find him occupied with literature and join- 
er’s work. He was the sixty-third deputy who, on the fourth of 
March of that same year, had risen from his seat, in full cos- 
tume, to leave the chamber at the moment when Manuel was 
clutched , according to the expression, and by the order of M. the 
viscount de Foucault. He had signed the protest deposited upon 
the bureau of the chamber on the fifth of March. This is suffi- 
cient to say what was the political course he ostensibly followed ; 
but it is not saying what were his doctrines in reality, nor even 
what was the secret party whose cause he pleaded under the 
vague and very elastic form of constitutionalism. Among the 
parliamentary men who took part in the honorable act we have 
just mentioned, are to be found names the most eminent and the 
most praised in France, in the time of the Bourbons. Why can 
we not praise them equally at the time in which we now are ! 
But there was, in the spontaneous impulse which made them 
protest against the illegal and violent proceedings of the govern- 
ment of that period, that, diversity of causes which every political 
opposition assembles under its banner. The left side of thje 
chamber had its acknowledged and official language ; but, at 
the bottom, that language really concealed some mysteries, and 
the extreme left had, it is said, certain connexions with the 
society of cabonarism, of which the attorney-general, Bellart, 
said : “ Agreeing upon this point, to destroy that which is, the 
enemies of the throne are divided among themselves upon all 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


247 


other points, and upon that which shall he. Napoleon II., a 
foreign prince, the republic, and a thousand other ideas quite as 
absurd and contradictory, while they divide our regulators upon 
the destiny which they have in reserve for us, are sufficient to 
inform, not only those who are faithful, but all men of good sense, 
of the rare happiness which would be derived to France from 
this first destruction, the prelude to many other destructions.”* 
The reader will perhaps discover hereafter, if it was to Napoleon 
II., to the foreign prince, of whom M. Bellart speaks, to the 
republic, or to a certain personage so singularly concealed by M. 
Bellart, under the periphrase of a thousand other hbsurd ideas , 
that the count de Villepreux looked, in the mystery of his 
thoughts and in the secret of his actions ; we have here to do 
only with his character and his ideas. 

A man of wit above all, rather acute and perspicacious in the 
matter of political facts than profound in views of social theory, 
piquing himself, nevertheless, on knowing everything, and un- 
derstanding everything, the count de Villepreux was, perhaps, 
the most advanced expression of the nobility of his time. He 
loved La Fayette ; he esteemed d’Argenson ; he had secretly 
rendered services to more than one noble outlaw ; he was even 
enthusiastic for the system of Babceuf, without granting it either 
faith or confidence. He was at the same time a great admirer 
of M. de Chateaubriand and of Beranger. His understanding 
seized with ardor all that was beautiful and great, while his soul, 
frivolous as that of a prince, could not fix itself seriously upon any 
conclusion. He believed in all systems, assimilating them to 
himself with a marvellous facility, for a quarter of an hour, and 
passing from one to the other without hypocrisy and without 
inconsistency ; for this amateur’s nature was his real, his domi- 
nant nature. He had all the qualities and all the defects of an 
artist and a great lord : avaricious and prodigal, according to 
the fancy of the moment, absolute and gracious, enthusiastic and 
sceptical, according to circumstances, he was often angry, and 
never kept a grudge. No one understood life better as regards 
comfort, independence, and that practical good sense which pro. 


Requsition in the case of La Rochelle. 


248 


THE COMPANION 


tects the individual without wounding society too much. At the 
bottom of all this there was a real goodness, a gracious obliging- 
ness, a well-understood generosity ; but there was also, through 
all these domestic virtues, an unequalled frivolity, a laughing 
selfishness, and a profound indifference resulting from that same 
easy fondness for all general principles and for all social ideas 
without application and without consequences. 

He had gone through the world of events, with his arms folded, 
an epigram in his mouth, and sometimes tears in his eyes. Every 
great action had his sympathy, but no doctrine captivated him 
beyond the time that was necessary for him to hear and to know 
it. He read in the men and events of his time as in books of 
relaxation ; and when his curiosity was satisfied, he smilingly 
went to sleep on the last page, consenting that every one should 
have his fashion of thinking, provided the social order was not 
too much shaken, and the theories had no pretension of passing 
into practice. 

With these habits and dispositions, though he had much ten- 
derness of heart, and great family virtue in a certain sense, he had 
allowed his children to grow up rather at a venture, and his grand- 
children entirely by chance. Thinking about them a great deal, 
and bestowing upon them all the means of instruction, there was 
neither consecutiveness, nor wholeness, nor discernment in the 
contradictory notions with which he had encumbered their young 
minds ; and as his friends had sometimes remonstrated with him 
on the dangers of such an education, he had persuaded himself 
that he acted thus in consequence of a system. This system, 
somewhat renewed from the Emile, consisted in having none ; it 
was the excuse he presented to himself to conceal his incapacity 
to do better. In fact, it would have been difficult for him to 
introduce into the minds of his pupils the unity and certainty 
which were wanting in his own. If he sometimes felt this, he 
consoled himself for it with the idea that at least he opposed no 
obstacles to the teachings of the future. 

This method had produced contrary effects in two natures so 
opposed as those of Yseult and her brother Raoul. The first 
reflecting, sensible, firm, profoundly just and delicate, eager for 
solid instruction and poetical culture, had acquired a great deal 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


249 


and did, in fact, await her conclusions from time and circum- 
stances. She had contracted but few prejudices in her acquaint- 
ance with the world, and the least breath of truth could free her 
from them. With her, the education a la Jean Jacques had done 
wonders ; and perhaps no education, even had it been a bad one, 
could have corrupted that nature so upright and so grandly wise. 

The other having shown a disposition very averse to study, 
they had been satisfied with giving him masters, in order to con- 
form to custom ; but matters had never been pushed so far as to 
make him shed tears. The grandfather had that selfish tender- 
ness of soul which cannot strive against the rebellions and tears 
of childhood. Young Raoul had therefore learned only the art 
of amusing himself. He knew how to ride ; he excelled in 
shooting, swimming, waltzing, and playing billiards. Although 
he was in appearance of a very delicate complexion, he was inde- 
fatigable in all bodily exercises, and he derived from this the 
greatest vanity he had, after that of his name, which he had ac- 
quired in his acquaintance with the young dandies of the great 
world. Upon this point the old count was indeed a little fright- 
ened at the results of his plan of a free education. The young 
* man showed no taste for liberal ideas. On the contrary, he had 
embraced the ultra side, which he saw was affected among his 
pleasure companions. He was well received in the fashionable 
world, and was there congratulated on thinking well. He was 
mortally ennuyed in the society of his grandfather, whom he 
secretly accused of seeing low company. His whole ambition 
was to enter the royal guard as an officer. But there he had met 
with opposition on the part of the grandfather, and their explana- 
tions had been quite sharp. When his personal interest was 
openly compromised, the count was not wanting in choleric will. 
He feared lest his popularity should desert him if he devoted his 
son to the service of the reigning princes. On his side the young 
man thought it very wrong that, to please the rabble, his grand- 
father should allow himself to manifest an opinion which might 
close against him all access to court favor. He therefore impa- 
tiently awaited his majority, which would permit him to mark 
out for himself an entirely opposite career ; and the count puz- 
zled his brains to retain him, without very well seeing how it 
12 * 


250 


THE COMPANION 


would be possible. At the bottom, they loved each other, for the 
old man had a tender and compassionate heart, and Raoul was 
not without his good qualities. He was a victim of that absence 
of doctrine which broke all moral and political bonds in his 
family ; but he would have been susceptible of receiving a bet- 
ter direction, and he had in him a certain secret delicacy of con- 
science which still restrained him. 

Yseult had a deeper and better felt tenderness for the count. 
Her soul could admit only great affections ; and, as she had not 
experience enough to appreciate her grandfather’s frivolity, she 
believed in him blindly. She took all his words, all his opinions, 
as serious, and held herself, in order to direct her course among 
the contradictions which she did not well understand, between an 
ardent liberalism and an instinctive respect for the laws of the 
world. Sometimes, however, she presented, on this latter point, 
objections to which the count listened with complaisance, and 
which he was far from being able to repel. Then he escaped 
from the difficulty by saying that Yseult had all the severity of 
logic which is conformable to a fresh mind, and that he did not 
wish to stifle those generous faculties before their time. It was 
necessary to be satisfied with this reply; and the good Yseult, 
abandoned to herself, gave herself up to many dreams, without 
knowing if she should ever be permitted to realize them. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


251 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

When Pierre Huguenin drew near to his two noble hosts, the 
count was seated in a rustic arm-chair under the shadow of his 
favorite linden. ‘He read his newspapers while making a Py- 
thagorean breakfast, and his grand-daughter, with a golden paper- 
knife, cut the leaves of a political pamphlet he had just received; 
a favorite dog was sleeping at their feet. An old valet- de- 
chambre went and came about them, watching that they should 
not have time to express a desire. Yseult had her eyes con- 
stantly fixed upon the alley by which Pierre arrived. He found 
her timid, almost trembling. He, exalted and animated by I 
know not what secret strength, felt himself full of courage and 
serenity. 

“ Approach, approach, my dear master Pierre,” cried the 
count laying his newspaper on the table, and taking off his spec- 
tacles. “ I have great pleasure in seeing you, and thank you 
for having come at my invitation. Please to take a seat here.” 
And he pointed to a chair on his left, Yseult being on his right. 

“ I came to receive your orders,” replied Pierre, hesitating 
about taking a seat. 

“We have nothing to do with orders here,” returned the 
count ; “ no one gives orders to a man like you. Thank God we 
have abjured that old style of speaking between master and jour- 
neyman. Besides, are you not yourself a master in your art ?” 

“ My art is but an obscure trade,” replied Pierre, who felt but 
little disposed to expansion. 

“ You are capable of everything,” returned the count, “ and 
if you feel any other ambition — ” 

“ Not any, M. the count,” interrupted Pierre with a firm tran- 
quillity. 

“ Still, you must yield, my good young man, and take a seat 


252 


THE COMPANION 


by my side, in order to converse without mistrust and without 
hauteur with an old man who requests you in a friendly manner.” 

Pierre, overcome by these affectionate words, and perhaps also 
by the sad and uneasy attitude of mademoiselle de Villepreux, 
took a seat in the chair opposite her. He thought that she would 
rise and go away, as she usually did when he conferred with her 
grandfather, but this time she remained and did not even move 
her chair back from the narrow table, which left only a short 
distance between her face and that of the journeyman joiner, and 
perhaps a shorter interval still between their feet. Pierre was 
very careful not to draw his chair entirely up-to the table. He 
felt calm and master of himself; but it seemed to him that, if he 
only grazed Yseult’s dress, the earth would have fled from under 
him, and he would again have fallen into the empire of dreams. 

“ Pierre,” resumed the count, in a tone of paternal authori- 
ty) “ y°u must open your heart to me. My daughter met you 
this morning in the park, overwhelmed, despairing, out of your 
senses. She accosted you, she questioned you ; she did well. 
She made to you, in my name, offers of services, promises of 
friendship ; she spoke to you after my own heart. You rejected 
those offers with a pride which renders you still more estimable 
in my eyes, and which makes it my duty to serve you in spite 
of yourself. Be careful, then, not to be unjust, Pierre ! I know 
beforehand what the old republican your father may have said 
to put you on your guard against me. I have an infinite esteem 
for your father, and do not wish to wound his prejudices ; but 
there is this difference between him and me, that he is the man 
of the past ; and that I, his elder, am still the man of the pre- 
sent. I flatter myself that I understand equality better than he ; 
and if you refuse to confide to me the secret of your trouble, I 
shall think I understand human brotherhood better than you 
also.” 

It was very difficult for the young workman to refuse his con- 
fidence and his admiration to such language. He felt himself 
entirely penetrated with gratitude and sympathy. While the 
count was speaking to him, Yseult had placed a cup of old Sevres 
under the mechanic s hand, and the count had poured out some 
coffee for him with such natural good nature, that Pierre had under- 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


253 


stood that the best possible taste, under the circumstances, was to 
accept in the same manner as they offered, without hesitation and 
without words. But he was troubled when Yseult half rose to 
offer him the sugar. He had only strength to look at her, and the 
expression of affectionate sensibility which he found upon her 
face did him good mingled with a certain harm. He accepted 
and swallowed all that she offered, not daring to refuse anything, 
and fearing nothing so much as to exchange a word with her at 
that moment. Still, in proportion as he ate (and he had great 
need of it, for he was fasting), he felt his presence of mind re- 
turn. The Mocha, which was very fine, and to which he was 
not accustomed, spontaneously communicated a sovereign warmth 
to his brain. He felt his tongue loose, his blood circulate freely, 
his ideas become clear, and the fear of ridicule yield to more 
serious considerations. 

“ You wish me to speak ?” said he to the count, after having 
replied negatively to all the suppositions made by the latter re- 
specting the cause of his suffering. “ Well ! I will speak. It 
will doubtless be a very useless discourse, and I believe that this 
beautiful dog, whose plumpness and fine condition would make 
many men envious, would be the first to despise it if he could 
understand it.” 

“ But we are not dogs,” replied the old count, laughing : “ I 
hope that we shall understand, and we shall take good care not to 
despise, for fear of being despised in our turn. Come, proud 
youth, give utterance to your thought.” 

Then Pierre began naively to relate all the ideas which had 
come to him in the park from dawn until sunrise. He did it 
without emphasis, but without embarrassment, and without false 
shame. He did not fear to tell the count all that he considered 
illegitimate in the fact of his riches; for, at the same time, he 
told all that he considered sacred in his right to happiness. He 
stated to him the whole social problem which was working in 
him with a clearness, and even with an eloquence which revealed 
to the count an extraordinary man, and compelled him to look at 
his daughter from time to time with an expression of astonish- 
ment and admiration, which she very visibly shared. I know 
not if Pierre perceived this latter fact : I think he did not wish to 


254 


THE COMPANION 


look at Yseult, in the fear that an air of doubt and of pity might 
deprive him of the strength to say all. I think also, that, if he 
had looked at her, and seen her smile with acquiescence, while 
her eyes were moist with sympathy, he would have lost his senses, 
or at least the thread of his discourse. 

When he had told all the terror and all the sadness which his 
reflections had awakened in him, and the abyss of doubt and de- 
spair to which they had led him, he confessed that he had felt, in 
that moment of distress, a horror of life and a necessity of flying 
to a better world. He confessed that he had entertained thoughts 
of suicide, and that the feeling of filial duty alone had power to 
bind him to an existence which no longer appeared to him but as 
an overpowering trial in a place of torture and iniquity. 

When he uttered these last words in an agitated voice, and 
with a pallid face, Yseult rose suddenly and made some turns in 
the alley, as if she were seeking for something. But when she 
returned to her place, her features were changed and her eyes 
shining : perhaps she had wept. 

Nothing could equal the surprise of the count de Villepreux. 
He looked with piercing eyes at the inspired face of the young 
proletary, and asked himself where this man, accustomed to han- 
dle a plane, could have discovered and developed the germs of 
ideas so vast, of thoughts so elevated. 

“ Do you know, master Pierre,” said he to him, when he had 
listened to the end with the greatest attention, “ that you would 
make a great orator, and perhaps a great writer? You speak 
like an apostle, and you reason like a philosopher !” 

Although this remark appeared to him frivolous in so serious a 
discussion, Pierre was flattered in spite of himself at being thus 
praised before Yseult. 

“ I neither know how to speak nor how to write,” replied he, 
blushing ; “ and having only problems to state, I should be but a 
poor preacher, unless you would be willing, M. the count, to 
dictate to me my conclusions, and determine my articles of 
faith.” 

“ Palsembleu !” cried the count, striking on the table with 
his snuff-box and looking at his daughter, “ how he talks of that ! 
He moves heaven and earth from top to bottom ; he searches 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


255 


more profoundly into the mysteries of life than all the sages of 
antiquity, and he wishes me to know the secrets of the Eternal 
Father! But do you take me, then, for the devil or the pope? 
And do you believe that it will not require the wisdom of two 
thousand years to come, added to all the wisdom of the past, to 
reply to your proposition ? The greatest minds of the present 
age will have nothing more to reply to you than this : ‘ Why the 
devil do you trouble yourself ? Try to be rich, and to accustom 
yourself to see the poor around you.’ Or else : ‘ My dear friend, 
you are crazy, you must be taken care of . 5 Yes, upon my word, 
my poor master Pierre, of a hundred thousand systems, all more 
beautiful and more impossible each than the other, which may be 
presented to you, there is not a single one worth so much as that 
which I have adopted for my own special use . 55 

“ And what is it then, sir ? 55 returned Pierre with earnestness ; 
“ for it is that I asked of you . 55 

“ To admire what you say, and endure what is done here 
below . 55 

“ Is that all ? 55 cried Pierre, rising with an excited air. 
“ Really, it was not worth the trouble of questioning me, if you 
had no better answer to give. Ah ! I told you, mademoiselle , 55 
added he, looking at Yseult without any feeling of confusion, 
absorbed as he was in the highest thoughts ; “ I told you truly 
that your father could do nothing for me ! 55 

“ Is not resignation the result of experience and the last term 
of wisdom ? 55 replied Yseult, with effort. 

“ Resignation for ourselves is a virtue which we must have, 
and which is not very difficult when we respect ourselves a 
little,” replied Pierre. “ As for myself, I declare that my poverty 
and my obscurity do not weigh upon me yet, and that I should 
be much more unhappy, much more troubled in my sentiment 
of justice if I were born rich like you, mademoiselle. But to 
resign myself to the unhappiness of others, to bear the yoke 
which weighs down innocent heads, to look tranquilly upon the 
course of the world without endeavoring to discover another 
truth, another order, another code of morals ! Oh ! that is im- 
possible — impossible ! It is enough to make me never sleep, 


256 


THE COMPANION 


never amuse myself, never know a moment of happiness ; it is 
enough to make me lose my courage, my reason, or my life ! ” 

“ Well, my father?” cried Yseult, raising towards the count 
her moistened eyes, ardent with hope and impatience. 

She awaited in vain a reply that might sanction, by the matu- 
rity of judgment, the evangelical enthusiasm of the young 
workman. The count smiled, raised his eyes to heaven, and 
drew his daughter to his heart, while he extended his other hand 
to Pierre. 

“ Generous young souls,” said he to them, after a moment’s 
silence, “ you will still have many dreams of this nature, before 
you recognise that there are immense paradoxes and sublime 
problems without possible solution in this lower world. I do not 
desire for you so soon the discouragement and the disgust which 
are the lot of wisdom in white hairs. Form wishes, form sys- 
tems, as many as you will, and give up your belief in them 
as late as you can. Master Pierre,” continued he, rising and 
lifting his cap of black velvet before the stupefied young man, 
“ my old head bows before you. I esteem you, admire and love 
you. Come often and talk with me. Your virtue will make 
me somewhat younger; and perhaps, after many reveries, the 
mountain which weighs down our ideal will be lightened by the 
weight of a whole grain of sand.” 

Saying this, he passed his arm under that of his daughter, and 
departed, carrying away his pamphlets, his spectacles, and his 
newspapers, with the tranquillity of a man accustomed to sport 
with the grandest ideas and the most sacred feelings. 

Pierre remained overwhelmed at first ; then an irony, mingled 
with indignation and pity, took possession of him. He consider- 
ed himself very ridiculous for having allowed the secret of his 
highest thoughts to be profaned by the frozen breath of this old 
man, grown grey in defections. It was difficult for him not to 
overwhelm him inwardly with the deepest contempt. 

“ What ! ” said he to himself, “ to know these things, to have 
neither the means nor the desire to repel their truth, and to keep 
them in one’s self as a useless treasure of which one understands 
neither the value nor the use ! To be a great lord, rich and 
powerful, to have grown old in the midst of social struggles, to 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


257 


have passed through the republic and the courts, and yet not to 
have a decided belief, not a victorious feeling, not an efficacious 
will, not even a generous hope ! And to be near the end of life 
without knowing how to express anything more than a barren 
regret, a derisive sympathy, a hypocritical discouragement ! — 
If that be one of the most sensible and the best informed of his 
caste, what then are the others, and what can we hope from dead 
bodies arrayed in the most beautiful insignia of life : power and 
renown ?” 

In this holy anger, Pierre was excited even to injustice. He 
could not make allowance for the effect of early education, and 
for prejudices drawn in with a mother’s milk. Nothing is more 
difficult than to place ourselves at a point of view entirely differ- 
ent to that from which we look. If Pierre had known society, 
not such as it should be, but such as it is, he would, in spite of 
the impetuosity of his virtuous indignation, have retained some 
respect and much affection for this old man, superior to the larger 
part of his class, and remarkable among all men from the good- 
ness of his instincts and the simplicity of his first impressions. 
But he had been drawn to him by Yseult’s promises, and for an 
instant, on seeing himself listened to with so much interest, he 
had expected a solution in conformity with his wishes. His sor- 
row was great at seeing himself praised and pitied at the same 
time, as an apostle and a fool. 

One single thing gave him strength to return to his work, that 
is, to resume patiently the yoke of life : this was the remem- 
brance of the expression which Yseult had on leaving him. It 
seemed to him that the surprise, the disappointment, the conster- 
nation, which he had experienced at that moment, filled the soul 
of that noble girl as they did his own. He had felt, on meeting 
her last look, something solemn like an eternal engagement, or 
an eternal farewell. His soul, recurring to that mysterious com- 
motion, felt itself filled with joy and pain at the same time. He 
recognised, at this hour, that he loved passionately, and he did 
not know if the thrilling of his heart proceeded from despair or 
from happiness. 


253 


THE COMPANION 


CHAPTER XXV. 

At the moment when Pierre resumed the road to his workshop, 
the count’s old valet-de-chambre recalled him, to request that he 
would repair the table on which his master had just breakfasted. 
It was a pretty little inlaid piece of furniture, with a small table 
to eat upon, a leaf for writing, and a drawer beneath. Pierre 
philosophically returned to go to work, and, the valpt-de-chambre 
assisting him, they turned down the table in order to examine 
the broken part. They emptied the drawer ; the valet collected 
in a basket a quantity of journals and old papers, and Pierre took 
the table on his shoulder to carry it to the workshop. 

When he had finished mending it, he shook the drawer to clean 
it before restoring it to its place ; and then he saw a card half 
sticking out of a crack. He drew it entirely out, and when he 
was about to throw it away as a useless thing, he was struck by 
its strange form. It was only the half of a card, but it w r as cut 
slantingly several times, in a manner which appeared systemati- 
cal. Pierre, who knew that the count was well informed in 
geometry, sought to find if there was not therein some problem 
of that science ; but he could find nothing like it, and put the 
card in his pocket, thinking that perhaps Yseult, in a moment of 
reverie, had cut it thus by chance. “Who can know,” asked 
he of himself, “ what thoughts secretly agitated her when she 
gave herself up to this pre-occupation 1 and as, after all, nothing 
is done by chance, the form of this cutting perhaps contains in 
a symbolical manner all the secrets of her soul.” 

Achille Lefort had informed him the night before that he should 
pass some days at Villepreux, having some old accounts to settle 
with the steward relative to the wine-cellar of the chateau. 
Pierre and he had agreed to meet that evening in the park. It 
was still daylight when Pierre went to the rendezvous, and while 
waiting for him, began to consider his card attentively. It was 
then that some confused ideas recurred to his memory. He had 


OF THE TOUR .OF FRANCE. 


259 


followed with interest, in the journals of the preceding year, the 
trial of the sergeants of la Rochelle. He had read the fanatical 
or enthusiastically eloquent speeches of the attorney general 
Bellart, and of the advocate general Marchangy. The revela- 
tion of numerous details relative to the secrets of carbonarism 
had struck him. Seeing Achille Lefort approach, he had the 
sudden inspiration to present the card, saying to him : “ Do you 
know that ?” 

“ How ! what do I see ?” cried the travelling clerk ; “ we 
were cousins, and you concealed it from me? Well, you mysti- 
fied me admirably ! But who could have guessed that? You 
were trying me then ? You were charged to watch me, to sound 
me? Was there any doubt respecting me? Really, I think I 
am dreaming ! Speak, answer me !” 

“ If we are not cousins, we are in the way to become so, “ re- 
plied Pierre, who, on seeing Achille’s naive stupefaction, had 
great difficulty to keep from laughing. “ It was the count de 
Villepreux who intrusted this sign to me, in order that I might 
sooner come to an understanding with you.” 

“ But if you are not initiated,” returned Achille rnore and 
more astonished, “ this is contrary to all rules.” 

“ Apparently,” pursued Pierre, “ he has the right to act thus.” 

“ But not at all !” cried the other. “ Though he is affiliated 
to the supreme vente , he is not permitted to disclose our signs and 
our secrets. I see well that the old coward throws the saddle 
after the horse, or that fear confuses his brain so much that he 
does not know what he is about. I ought to have expected some- 
thing like this, after all he told me yesterday. The news from 
Trocadero has unhorsed him completely ; he thinks that all is 
lost. He was anxious enough at the beginning of the war. He 
has come to take refuge in his old keep only to hold himself 
aloof from events, and now he would like to hide himself with his 
owls in the cracks of his emblazoned walls ! Such are men ! 
when they have a moment of courage, they have an increase of 
cowardice immediately afterwards. Faith, I can’t understand the 
madness of a directing committee that hopes to get any good out of 
these old nobles ; as if they could forget the reign of terror, and 
as if they could do anything else but spoil our plans and embar- 


260 


THE COMPANION 


rass our manoeuvres ; excuse me, master Pierre, I don’t say this 
from distrust of you, I know that you are as loyal, as discreet, 
as the best among us. But, in fine, no one of us is allowed to 
jest with his promises and our secrets.” 

“Be reassured and appeased, M. Lefort,” replied Pierre, “No 
one gave me this card. I found it at the bottom of a drawer ; 
and if any one has revealed to me the secrets of the association, 
it is you, who have just told me much more than I asked.” 

“ Ah ! then you are laughing at me !” said Achille, his eyes 
glittering with vexation and in a tone which seemed to wish to 
assume rather more than usual. 

“ Gently, my master,” replied Pierre, “ take, this card, it can 
do me no good, and your secrets do not appear to be much com- 
promised by the discovery of this plaything. Amuse yourself 
with these things ; I have no right to laugh at them — I who am 
bound by puerilities of the same nature to a society more secret, 
more vast, more solid, and more believing than your own.” 

“ You seem to be giving me a lesson, master Pierre,” returned 
Achille, completely vexed. “ Whatever esteem I may have for 
you, I do not acknowledge such a right. If you were ignorant 
and rude like the greater part of your fellows, I might place 
myself, by the silence of pity, above the reach of your poor jests. 
But from the moment that I look upon you as my equal in edu- 
cation and reasoning powers, I declare to you that 1 will not be 
any more patient with you than I would be with one of my 
comrades.” 

“ M. Lefort,” replied Pierre with the greatest calmness, “ I 
thank you for the flattering expressions with which you accom- 
pany your threats ; but I see peep out the pride of a man who 
puts on his glove before giving a blow. Come, I will be more 
proud than you, I will extend my hand to you, declaring that I 
regret having wounded you.” 

Pierre,” said Achille, affectionately clasping the mechanic’s 
hand, “ I feel that I love you ; but, I beg of you, let not this 
friendship be broken by the pride of either of us.” 

“ I make the same request of you,” said Pierre smiling. 

“ My part is more difficult than yours,” returned Achille, “you 
are the people, that is, the aristocrat, the sovereign, whom we 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


261 


conspirators of the third estate come to implore for the cause of 
justice and truth. You treat us as subalterns; you question us 
with hauteur, with distrust ; you ask us if we are fools or in- 
triguers ; you subject us to a thousand insults, that you must 
allow. And when we do not carry the spirit of propagandised 
even to Christian humility, when our blood boils in our veins, and 
when we claim to be treated by you as your equals, you tell us 
that we were not sincere, that we bear within us hatred and pride, 
in a word, that we are impostors and cowards who lower our- 
selves to you in order to exploit you. The government has 
adopted this system of calumnies in order to diminish our influ- 
ence with you, to detach the people from its only, its true friends; 
and you thus throw yourselves into the trap of absolutism. This 
is neither generous nor wise.” 

“ What you say contains excellent truths from the point of view 
in which you are,” returned Pierre. “ But there is much in re- 
ply to justify us. Even in what concerns you, you who call 
yourselves sincere men, I might object to you that you have re- 
ceived from heaven no mission to excite and agitate us, you who 
have never reflected seriously upon our condition, and who, even 
while lamenting it, know absolutely no method of changing it. I 
might also tell you that you contract, in the trade you follow (for 
it is a trade, allow me the expression), habits quite as jesuitical 
in their nature, as those which you attribute to a corrupting govern- 
ment. You lightly make to us promises which you know you 
cannot keep ; then you observe us, you penetrate us, you learn 
our weaknesses, our errors, our vices ; and when you have 
endured for some time this rough contact with the people, as the 
spirit of charity and of teaching is not really in you, as you are 
tormented by ideas purely political and by no means moral, you 
become disgusted and you withdraw from us saying : ‘ I have seen 
the people, they are ferocious, they are brutified ; it will be cen- 
turies before they are fit to govern themselves. Beware of the 
people, my friends, let us not go to fast. The people is behind 
us, ready to overwhelm us. Woe to us if we let loose the enraged 
beast—’ ” 

“We do not say that !” cried Achille. 

“ You do say it ; you cannot help writing and publishing it ; 


262 


THE COMPANION 


your journals are full of the protests of your lawyers and your 
orators who deny and despise us. Think you that we do not 
read your journals ? ‘ The people/ you say, ‘ are not that vile 

population which howls in the mobs, which demands blood and 
pillage, which begs, club in hand, ready to take the life of any 
one who does not give up his purse. The people are the healthy 
part of the population, which earns its bread honestly, which re- 
spects acquired rights, seeking to deserve the same rights, not by 
violence and anarchy, but by perseverance in labor, by aptitude 
for instruction, and respect for the laws of our country V This is 
how you define the people, this is how you put on their Sunday 
clothes to present yourselves before the tribunals, before the 
chambers, and before all those who have the means to subscribe 
to your publications. But the coarse dress which the workman 
wears during the week, his horrible wounds, his disgusting 
maladies, and his vermin — but his deep indignation when 
misery reduces him to extremity, his too just threats when he 
sees himself forgotten and trodden under foot — but his shocking 
delirium when the regret of yesterday and the fear of to-morrow 
compel him to drink, as one of your poets has said, the forgetful- 
ness of sorrow — but all that there is in him of rage, of disorder, 
and abandonment of self in the fact of his misery, you wash your 
hands of this ; you know nothing of it ; you would blush to jus- 
tify it ; you say : ‘ those are our enemies also ; they are the 
horror and disgrace of society !’ And yet, those also are the 
people ! Cleanse their stains, remedy their evils, and you will 
see clearly that this vile herd came from the bosom of God as 
well as yourselves. In vain do you wish to make distinctions 
and categories ; there are not two peoples, there is but one. That 
one which works in your houses, smiling, quiet and well-dressed, 
is the same that howls at your gates, irritated, gloomy, and 
covered with rags. The only difference is that you have given 
work and bread to the first, and that you have found nothing for 
the other to do. Why, for example, do you, M. Lefort, place 
me, incessantly, in your praises, apart from my family. Do you 
think to do me honor ? by no means, I wish nothing of the kind, 
not I. The lowest of beggars is my equal, mine. I do not 
blush to recognise him, as do many among us, into whom 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


263 


you have breathed your ingratitude and your vanity, at the 
same time with your habits of comfort. No, no ! that wretched 
being is not of a caste inferior to mine, he is my brother, and his 
abject situation makes me blush for the comfort in which I live. 
Understand this well, M. Lefort : so long as there are human 
beings covered with the leprosy of poverty, so long I shall say 
that you have done no good with your conspiracies, your citizen 
charters, and your changes of cockade.” 

“ My dear Huguenin,” said Achille, with emotion, “your sen- 
timents are grand ; but you are in too much haste to accuse us. 
Do you think it so easy a matter to be the physician of moral 
humanity, and to find without hesitation and without failure the 
remedy for so many evils ?” 

“ Is it seeking a remedy, then, to turn away your eyes with 
horror and to stop your nostrils, saying that there is nothing but 
corruption and infection in the hospital ? What should you think 
of a surgeon who could not see an ulcerated limb without faint- 
ing ? would that be devotedness ? would it even be a love of 
science? would it be an indication of a real vocation. Well! 
have courage then to descend into the lazar-houses of moral 
humanity, as you say ; have courage then to sound with your 
hands the abyss of our evils, and do not lose time in saying that 
it is a horrible sight ; think of the remedy : for I have never seen 
a physician, however slothful and however ignorant he might be 
otherwise, abandon a patient under the pretext that he was too 
disgusting to be cured. Now, if I pass from the sincere but 
shallow republican, to those who are neither the one nor the other, 
where shall I find words to express my opinion of them ! I have 
known some, you see, though I have been accustomed only to the 
society of the workshop. That physician with whom you caused 
me to sup at the Vaudois’, is he not a man who, in the event of a 
revolution, has a powerful personage, a prince of the blood-royal, 
all ready in his pocket, at once to take the place of him who will 
be overturned. And without going very far, your conspirator 
deputy, your member of the supreme vente, your old count de 
Villepreux, with whom, I am sure, you have more political than 
business transactions, have you not just given me a faithful 
portrait of him ?” 


264 


THE COMPANION 


“ Perhaps I went too far ; I accused him, in my excitement, 
of a fault which he did not commit.” 

“ Do not try to reinstate him in my good opinion. I have 
talked with him for an hour to-day. I have seen the bottom of 
his conscience. There is foothold everywhere, I assure you, for 
whomsoever likes to follow, without fatigue and without danger, 
the current of fortune.” 

Here Pierre related his interview with the count, without men- 
tioning, however, the circumstance which had led to it. His 
recital made Achille reflect a great deal. He asked himself 
what he could have replied to the questipn which the mechanic 
had addressed to the old rich man, and yet he could find no ob- 
jection against the right of the mechanic thus to state the problem 
of property. 

“ It is certain,” said he, “that this is a grave question, and one 
which must be considered by men of the age and of genius.” 

“ And of heart,” returned Pierre ; “ for with intelligence alone, 
you will never find the answer.” 

“ And without it, nevertheless, what good does devotedness do? 
Is it not necessary that men superior to the mass by science and 
meditation should come to the assistance of the people, and en- 
lighten them respecting their real interests?” 

“Don’t use that word, M. Achille. Our real interests ! great 
God ! w r e know very well what that means in the ideas of your 
future legislators !” 

“ But, in fine, Pierre, you do not distrust me ?” 

“ No, certainly ; but I do not believe in you, for you know no 
more than I, who know nothing.” 

“ Then have recourse to and confidence in superior men.” 

“ Where are they ? What have they done ? What have they 
taught ? What ! you have heard them, you act under their 
orders, you work for their profit, and you know nothing, you 
have nothing to say to me from them ? They have a secret, and 
they do not intrust it to their adepts ? And they do not let the 
people see even a glimpse of it ? Are they then the brahmins 
of India ?” 

“ You have a cruel and discouraging logic, master Pierre. 
What must be done, then, if no one knows what he does or what 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


205 


he says ? Must we fold our arms, and wait for the people to 
deliver themselves ? Do you believe they will succeed without 
counsels, without guides, without a rule ?” 

“ They will succeed, however, and they will have all these. 
Their rule, they will themselves make ; their guides, they will 
draw from their own bosom ; their counsels, they will receive 
from the Spirit of God, which will descend upon them. We 
must, indeed, count a little upon Providence.” 

“ So you reject every kind of light coming from the chiefs of 
liberalism ? Because a man has celebrity, talents, and influence 
on the middling classes, the people will distrust him ?” 

“ The day on which a man shall come to us and say : ‘ Men 
praise my merit, admire my knowledge, bend under my power : 
but listen, my children ; my science, my strength, my genius, 
give me no right that can be hurtful to you. I acknowledge, 
therefore, that the most simple among you has a right, quite as 
much as I and mine, to comfort, to liberty, to education ; that 
the weakest among you has a right to repress my strength if X 
abuse it, and the most obscure to reject my opinion, if it be im- 
moral ; in fine, that I must give proof of virtue and of charity 
in order to be, in my own eyes as in yours, a great savant, a 
great sovereign, or a great poet.’ Oh ! let those who are called 
great men come and say this to us ! we will cast ourselves upon 
their bosom, as upon the bosom of God ; for God does not create 
by knowledge and by power alone — he creates by love also. 
But so long as, despising the grossness of our understanding, they 
fold us like* beasts in an enclosure where there is not even grass 
to crop, which will not hold us all without our crushing and 
smothering each other, and from which, nevertheless, we cannot 
get out, because they have everywhere placed soldiers to guard 
from our hands the beautiful fruits of the earth, we will say to 
them : 4 Be silent, and let us get out as we can. Your advice is 
treachery, and your triumphs are insults. Do not walk upon 
our chains with a proud air ; do not march through our dis- 
heartened ranks with the words of false pity in your mouths. 
We do not wish to do anything for you, not even to bow to you ; 
for you, who bow to us very low when you are afraid or have 
need of us, you know very well that you have not the least 


266 


'THE COMPANION 


desire to resign into our hands your treasures, your power, and 
your glory. This is what we shall say to your men of intellect.” 

“ But all that you put in the mouth of the man w r ho asks from 
the people his strength and his celebrity, I feel in my heart. If 
I have such sentiments, I, an obscure servant of the cause, why 
will you not allow that nobler intellects may have them in the 
highest degree ?” 

“ Because, until the present time, this has not shown itself to 
be the case ; because I have read all I could read, and have not 
even had a glimpse of what I sought ; because I have found all 
the solutions given by your past and present great minds to be 
proud, cruel, and anti-human.” " 

“ It is also because you are too much in the ideal ; you ask 
more of men than they can accomplish. You would wish for 
chiefs and councillors who would unite in themselves the boldness 
of Napoleon and the humility of Jesus Christ. This is exacting 
too much of human nature in one day ; and besides, if such a 
man should come, he would not be understood. You reason, you 
individually — the people do not reason.” 

u The people reason better than you think ; and the proof is, 
that you cannot succeed in agitating them. They feel that their 
hour is not yet come. They prefer rather to endure their evils 
some days longer, than to raise their bruised side in order to 
bruise the other side by changing their position. They wait for 
the vault over them to be raised, so that they may stand erect. 
And do you know of what that vault is made ? Of the citizens 
first, and of the nobles on top. Citizens ! shake off your nobles, 
if they are too heavy for you : that is your business. We will 
help you, if it be proved to us some day that it will relieve our- 
selves. But if you are as heavy as they, look out for yourselves ! 
we will shake you off in our turn.” 

“ But what will you do until then ?” 

“What you advise us. We will work with all our strength 
not to die of hunger, and we will still find means to help each 
other. We will preserve our companionship among workmen, 
in spite of its abuses and its excesses, because its principle is 
more beautiful than that of your carbonarism. It tends to reesta- 
blish equality among ourselves, while yours tends to maintain 
inequality upon the earth.” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


267 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

On the next day the marchioness did not dine at the chateau. 
She had gone to pay a visit to one of her relatives established in 
a small city in the neighborhood. She departed in the morning 
in a light open calash drawn by one horse and accompanied by 
a single domestic who drove. She had taken, intentionally, or 
rather by the advice of Yseult, the most modest equipage of the 
chateau, in order not to wound the self-love of her relative, who 
was not rich. This precaution had not prevented all the small 
people of the city from posting themselves at their doors and 
windows to see her pass, saying to each other with bitterness : 
“ Look at that marchioness with her coach and her coachman ! 
Nevertheless she is old Clicot the dyer’s daughter.” 

Josephine was kept to dinner by her cousin, and could not 
resume the road to Villepreux before the close of day. She re- 
marked with a certain anxiety, as she entered the carriage, that 
Wolf, the coachman, had a loud voice and a red face. This 
anxiety increased when she saw him rapidly descend the badly 
paved street of the city, grazing the corner stones with that au- 
dacity and that good luck which often accompany drunken peo- 
ple. The fact is that Wolf had met some friends : an expression 
consecrated among drunkards to explain and justify their fre- 
quent mishaps. Those honest persons have so many friends that 
they keep no account of them, and you can go nowhere with 
them that they do not meet some. 

After two hundred paces, Wolf, and consequently the calash 
and the marchioness, had, by a miracle, already escaped so 
many disasters, that it was to be feared Providence would soon 
be wearied. In vain Josephine commanded and conjured him to 
go more gently ; he paid no attention to her, and seemed to give 
wings to the quiet horse he drove. Fortunately perhaps, heaven 
inspired him with the idea of renewing the snapper to his whip, 


268 


THE COMPANION 


and of stopping, for that purpose, before the door of a small 
house situated at the extremity of the suburb, and decorated with 
this inscription : Father Labrique, horse-shoer, lets lodgings for 
man and beast , sells bran, straw, oats, fyc. 

The evening still grew darker, and Josephine’s fear went on 
increasing. As soon as she saw the Automedon down from his 
seat, busy talking with the people of the house, who brought him 
at the same time a snapper for his whip and a small glass of 
brandy, she resolved to leave the carriage and return to the city, 
in order to ask her cousin for a man to drive her, or hospitality 
until the next day. There was no hope that Wolf, who, of 
course, pretended to be absolutely fasting, would consent to listen 
to her complaints. She therefore called for some one to open 
the carriage door. “ Sir,” cried she at a venture to a man whom 
she saw stopping in the middle of the road, “ have the goodness 
to help me from the carriage.” Before she had finished her 
sentence, the door was opened, and a respectful and assiduous 
cavalier offered her his hand. It was the Corinthian. 

“ You here !” cried the marchioness with more joy than pru- 
dence. 

“ I was waiting for you to pass,” replied Amaury, lowering 
his voice. 

The marchioness, confused, stopped, one foot out of the car- 
riage, one hand in that of Amaury. 

“ I do not understand what you mean to say,” returned she, 
in a trembling voice. “ How and why did you wait for me ?” 

“ I came here in the day time to make some purchases relat- 
ing to my business. I dined in this cabaret at the same time 
with M. Wolf, your coachman. I saw him drink so much that 
I became anxious as to the manner in which he would drive 
your carriage, and I waited here to see if he went straight, and 
if there was no danger of your being overturned.” 

“ He is in a state of intolerable drunkenness,” replied the 
marchioness ; “ and if you would have the goodness to accom- 
pany me back to the city — ” 

“ And why not to the chateau?” returned the Corinthian. 
“I have never driven a calash ; but I know how to drive a co- 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


269 


vered cart on occasion, and it does not seem to me that there is 
much difference.” 

“ You would have no repugnance to mounting the box ?” ' 

“ I should have a great deal under other circumstances,” re- 
plied the Corinthian, smiling; “ but I feel none at this moment.” 

Josephine understood, and felt herself divided, between terror 
of what was passing within her, and the irresistible desire to ac- 
cept Amaury’s offer ; and it was not fear alone that impelled her 
to it. 

“ But how shall we manage,” said she. “It is not possible 
for more than one to sit upon the box, and Wolf would never 
consent to climb up behind the carriage. He is full of self-love, 
and does not believe himself drunk the least in the world ; he 
will make an uproar. That man frightens me horribly. I 
should rather return on foot to the chateau than allow myself to 
be driven by him.” 

“ I would rather drag the carriage myself than let you walk 
five long leagues,” replied the Corinthian. 

“Well! we will leave him here,” said Josephine, whose 
cheeks were burning. “ Let us go !” 

“ Let us go !” said the Corinthian. “ There he is entering 
the cabaret ; we shall be far away before he thinks of coming 
out.” 

He precipitately closed the door, leaped upon the box, seized 
the whip and reins, and departed like a flash, without giving the 
marchioness time for reflection. 

Where had he found so much boldness ? Eh ! What do I 
know 1 Reader, it is easier for you to understand than for me 
to explain. There are natures which are timid like Pierre 
Huo-uenin’s, reserved like Yseult’s. There are also natures 
which are spontaneous like the marchioness’s, impetuous like 
the Corinthian’s. Then there is youth, beauty which seeks and 
attracts beauty, love which levels ranks and laughs at custom ; 
there is also opportunity which emboldens, and night which 
protects. 

The Corinthian descended the hill with more temerity than 
Wolf would have done — and yet Josephine felt no fear ; and 
yet that poor Wolf was not the most intoxicated of the three. 


270 


THE COMPANION 


When they were at the bottom of the hill, it was necessary to 
ascend, and there it was impossible for the horse to keep up his 
trot. Besides, were they not far enough ahead to let the poor 
beast breathe ? But the marchioness was not yet easy. That 
drunken man might run after the carriage, reclaim his whip and 
his box, of which he was as jealous as a king could be of his 
throne and his sceptre ; in fine, dispute their possession, by force, 
with the usurper. The marchioness shuddered at the idea of 
such a scene, and, in her anxiety, it was quite natural that she 
should move about in the carriage, that she should change her 
place, that she should even take the front seat in order to see if 
no one was running towards them from behind. It was also 
natural that the Corinthian should turn round from time to time, 
and rest his elbow upon the back cushion of the front seat of the 
calash, in order to reassure the marchioness and reply to her 
frequent questions. In fine, this unexpected meeting, this sudden 
determination, and this precipitate flight, were quite strange 
enough for them to express their astonishment and exchange 
some explanations. 

Josephine, who had never been able to free herself from that 
citizen naivet6 which is called impropriety in the great world, 
allowed herself to give utterance to a reflection which, by a leap, 
gave a great advance to the conversation. 

“ But, mon Dieu !” cried she, “ what will they say of me in 
the city, when that servant shall tell all the cabaret, and all the 
suburb, that I fled without him ? And what will they think at 
the chateau when they see me arrive alone with you ?” 

Pierre Huguenin, under similar circumstances, would have 
replied, with a little bitterness, that they would not even think 
of being astonished. Less proud, and at the same time less 
modest, Amaury thought only of dissipating the anxiety of the 
marchioness. 

“ I will drive you as far as the gate of the chateau,’’ replied 
he, “ and there I will run away without being seen. You will 
mount the box, you will take the reins, and you will say to the 
domestics who come to open, that Wolf forgot himself at the ca- 
baret, that you had good reasons not to trust him, and that you 
drove the carriage yourself.” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


271 


“Nobody will believe it. They know what a coward I am.” 

“ Fear gives courage. Between two dangers we choose the 
least. See, madam, I repeat proverbs to you like Sancho, to 
make you laugh ; but you do not laugh, you are still afraid.” 

“ You do not understand, you do not, M. Amaury ! Women 
are so unhappy, such slaves, so easily sacrificed in the world in 
which I live !” 

“ Unhappy, slaves, you ! I thought you were all queens.” 

“ And what made you think so ?” 

“You are all so beautiful, so well dressed ! You have always 
so animated, so happy an air !” 

“ Really, do you think I have such an air ?” 

“ I have always seen you with a smile upon your lips, and 
your complexion is always so pure, your manners so gracious — 
I say this, madam the marchioness, without knowing if 1 express 
myself properly, and expecting always to make you laugh, like 
Sancho talking to the duchess.” 

“ Do not speak so to me, Amaury ; it is you who have the 
appearance of laughing at me. You are not Sancho, and I am 
neither a duchess nor a real marchioness ; I am the daughter of 
a mechanic, and I have no pretension to be anything else.” 

“ And yet — . But you forbid me to be Sancho, and I must 
not tell you all that passes in my head.” 

“ Oh ! I know very well what you wish to say ; I married a 
noble, is it not ! I have been sufficiently reproached for it, both 
in his class and my own. And I have expiated it cruelly enough 
for God to have forgiven me !” 

Amaury, who had done violence to his feelings in order to 
converse gaily, was too much agitated to continue in the same 
tone, but not bold enough to speak seriously. They both fell 
into a profound silence, and only understood each other the bet- 
ter. What had they to communicate ? They had, as yet, said 
nothing, and yet they knew very well that they loved each other. 
Amaury felt that there was only a word to exchange between 
them ; but there the courage failed on both sides. 

“ Mon Dieu ! M. Amaury,” said the marchioness, who had 
returned to the back part of the carriage, “ it seems to me that 
we have passed the cross-road. We ought to have turned to the 


272 


THE COMPANION 


left. Do you know the road ?” And she resumed the front 
scat. 

“ I travelled it this morning for the first time,” replied the 
Corinthian ; “ but it seems to me that the horse will carry us 
right, unless he is in the same situation as myself.” 

“ In fact this is a horse which has just been brought from 
Paris. He cannot help us.” 

“ I think we must keep straight on.” 

“ No, no, we must leave the main road, and go into the lande. 
We have lost our way, but we shall find it in that direction.” 

Nothing was more difficult than to guide their course on the 
lande by the cart tracks running in every direction, all alike and 
presenting no indication to the traveller other than certain pecu- 
liarities to which the people of the country alone were accus- 
tomed. Although Josephine had often traversed those vague 
paths, she could not be sufficiently sure of her position not to 
take a certain thicket or a certain post for that which she thought 
she recognised. Moreover, the night was entirely dark ; fleecy 
clouds veiled the feeble light of the stars, and insensibly the white 
mist which slept upon the pools of water spread itself over all 
objects, and soon prevented their distinguishing any. 

This uncertain advance in the mist was not without danger. 
The Sologne, that vast lande which extends through the most 
fertile and most charming districts of central France, is a desert 
capriciously crossed by dry zones in which flourish magnificent 
heaths, and moist ones in which languish, among the reeds, waters 
without motion and without color. A greyish vegetation covers 
those muddy lakes, more dangerous than torrents or precipices. 
Our travellers had wandered a long while in this labyrinth with- 
out finding an exit. The horse, deceived by appearances of 
beaten paths, entered into blind ones, at the end of which, stop- 
ped by bogs, he was obliged to retrace his steps. From time to 
time one wheel sank in a quicksand, which it was impossible to 
see or to avoid ; the carriage then leaned over in a threatening 
manner, and the frightened marchioness pressed with all her 
strength the Corinthian’s arm, uttering cries, soon succeeded by 
laughter, which served to conceal her shame. Amaury would 
have sought for these accidents could he have perceived them ; 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE 


273 


but they became so frequent, and the danger so real, that it was 
necessary to give up going any further. The marchioness in- 
sisted upon this, for she began to be really terrified, and her 
driver no longer dared be sure that he would not upset her in 
some swamp. The horse, fatigued with travelling two hours, 
sometimes in the thorny furze, sometimes in clay up to his 
knees, stopped of his own accord and began to graze. 

The marchioness said, laughingly, that she was hungry, not 
well knowing, I believe, what to say. 

“I have some rye bread in my bag,” said Amaury : “ why 
can T not metamorphose it into pure wheat, that I may offer it to 
you ?” 

“ Rye bread !” cried Josephine ; “ oh ! how fortunate l I 
like no other, and I have been deprived of it so long ! Give me 
some, it will recall to me that beautiful time of my life when I 
was not a marchioness.” 

Amaury opened his bag and took out the rye bread. Jose- 
phine broke it, and giving him half : “ I hope that you will eat 
with me,” said she to him. 

“ I never expected to sup with you, madam the marchioness,” 
replied Amaury, receiving with joy the bread she had touched. 

“ Do not call me marchioness any more,” said she, with a 
charming melancholy. “We are here in the desert: may I not 
forget my slavery for a single hour ? Ah ! if you knew all that 
this heath recalls to me ! My childhood, my early sports, my 
dear lost liberty, sacrificed at sixteen, and for ever ! I was a 
real peasant in those day : I ran with bare feet after the butter- 
flies, after the birds. I was more simple than the little shepherd 
girls who were my associates ; for they knew how to spin and 
knit, and I — I knew nothing ; and when I undertook to watch 
the sheep, I was so very forgetful that I always lost some one. 
Would you believe that at twelve years old I did not know how 
to read ?” 

“ I believe that I did not know how at fifteen,” replied Amaury. 

“ But how many things you have learnt in a short time ! My 
uncle says you are more learned than his son. Certainly you 
are more so than I. I see well, from the odds and ends of con- 
13 * 


274 


THE COMPANION 


versations we have had together at the dance, that you have 
read enormously.” 

“ Too little to be learned, enough to be unhappy.” 

“ Unhappy ! You also ? And why, then ?” 

“ Were you not happier when you were a little shepherdess in 
wooden shoes ?” 

“ But you have not lost your liberty, you ?” 

“ Perhaps so, mon Dieu ! But if I should find it again, what 
good would it do me ?” 

“ How ! the world is before you, the future smiles upon you, 
my dear Corinthian ; you have genius, you will be an artist ; 
you will be rich perhaps, and certainly celebrated.” 

“ When all these dreams are realized, will they make me 
more happy V’ 

“ Ah ! I see how it is, you have social ideas, like your friend 
Pierre. My uncle told us last evening that Pierre had his mind 
quite filled with philosophical dreams. I do not know what that 
means, not I ; you see, Amaury, that I have not so much learn- 
ing as you.” 

“ Social ideas, I ! philosophical dreams ! No, truly ! I no 
longer think of all that. My heart torments me more than my 
head.” 

There was a moment of silence. That fraternal repast had 
greatly diminished the distance between them. By breaking the 
black bread of the workman, the marchioness had communed 
with him, and never did philter, formed with the most skilful 
preparations, produce a more magical effect upon two timid 
lovers. 

“ I am sure you are cold,” said Amaury, feeling the shudder 
of the marchioness, whose shoulder touched his. 

“ I am only a little cold in my feet,” she replied. 

“ I should think so ; you have satin shoes on.” 

“ How do you know that ?” 

“ Did you not put your foot out of the carriage to alight when 
I opened the door ?” 

“ What are you doing now ?” 

“ 1 am taking off my vest to wrap your feet in, I have nothing 
else.” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


275 


“ But you will catch cold. I will never allow that. In such 
a mist ! No, no, I will not have it.” 

“ Do not refuse me this favor ; it is probably the only one 
that I shall ask of you in my whole life, madam the mar- 
chioness.” 

“ Ah ! if you call me~so again, I will listen to nothing.” 

“ And what can I call you ?” 

Josephine did not reply. The Corinthian had taken off his 
vest, he had left the box and had come to the door. “ If you 
would take the back seat,” said he to her, “ you would at least 
be protected by the covering of the calash ; you would not have 
this mist on your head.” 

“ And you,” said Josephine ; “ you mean to remain as you 
are, your shoulders exposed to the cold, and your feet in the 
wet grass ?” 

“ I will get on the box again.” 

“ Then I can’t talk with you any longer, you will be too far 
off.” 

“ Well, I will take a seat on this step.” 

“ No, get into the carriage.” 

“ And if the horse drags us into a pond ?” 

“ Fasten the reins to the seat, you can quickly seize them in 
case of need.’ 

“ In fact, he is busy !” said Amaury, seeing that the excellent 
beast was grazing without thought of evil. 

“ He crops the fern as I eat the rye bread,” said Josephine, 
laughing. “ Certainly, to him also, this lande recalls youth and 
liberty.” 

Amaury seated himself in the calash opposite the marchioness. 
This was the last act of respect that remained to him to perform. 
But the night was so fresh, and he had stripped himself to cover 
her feet ! She made him sit by her side, in order that he might 
at least have a little protection against the mist. Something, 
indeed, told her in the bottom of her heart, that this was striking 
the last blow at an already vanquished man. He had defended 
himself courageously for two hours, and certainly she had no 
idea of exciting him. She thought that the timidity of a man 
of twenty would preserve her to the end, and that a pure and 


276 


THE COMPANION 


fraternal love would be sufficient for their mutual joy. But 
there was fear in her soul on account of the world in which she 
lived, and in the soul of the Corinthian there was remorse on 
account of the Savinienne. Now, pure love requires a perfect 
calmness of conscience, and neither of them was calm. A 
strange shivering had seized upon her as well as upon him. 
They still tried to attribute it to the cold. They endeavored to 
laugh and to talk ; they no longer found anything to say to each 
other, and the Corinthian felt a sadness which bordered on bit- 
terness. This silence become more irksome and more fearful 
in proportion as it was prolonged, and Josephine felt indeed 
that they must fly or fall. 

“ Do you not think,” said she with terror, “ that we could re- 
sume our route ? ” 

“ Where is our route 1 ” said the Corinthian with a secret 
rage. 

The marchioness saw that he suffered : she was overcome. 

“ In fact,” said she, “ we should only lose ourselves the more. 
We had better remain here patiently until day. The nights are 
so short at this season ! ” 

She touched her repeater. It was midnight. And she added, 
to draw an answer from him : 

“ It will be daylight in two hours, will it not ? ” 

“ The day will come quickly enough, you may be tranquil,” 
replied Amaury, in a despairing voice. 

That sound of his voice thrilled through Josephine. A new 
silence succeeded this mute burst of Amaury. The horse 
whinnied in sign of ennui and distress. The frogs croaked in 
the swamp. 

Suddenly Amaury saw that Josephine wept. He threw him- 
self at her feet ; and two other hours passed in an intoxication so 
complete, that they forgot all, the world, the former love, the 
future, and fear, and the day which dawned, and the horse which 
had resumed his route. 

A cry of terror escaped the marchioness, when she saw, by the 
light of the morning, a man’s head advancing towards the door. 
This fright was very natural, but it tore the Corinthian as from 
a dream. And when he thought of it afterwards, he imagined 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


277 


that the marchioness would have felt half less fright and shame, 
if she had been surprised in the arms of a gentleman. 

As to him, he also had a feeling of confusion before the witness 
of his happiness. It was Pierre Huguenin. 

“ Be reassured, madam the marchioness,” said the latter on 
seeing Josephine’s frightful paleness and wandering air. “ I am 
alone, and you have nothing to fear. But you must return at 
once to the chateau. You were expected quite far into the 
night. Your cousin was so anxious about you, that she sent to 
the city. Perhaps they are also looking for you in another di- 
rection.” 

“ Listen, Pierre,” said the Corinthian. “ This is what you 
must say : I passed the night at the city ; you have not seen 
me ; you found madam the marchioness alone, lost, run away 
with by her horse, about midnight — ” 

“ That is impossible, they saw me at the chateau not half an 
hour ago.” 

“ But where are we, then ? ” 

“ A quarter of a league from the chateau at most. What shall 
I say ? ” 

“'That Wolf got intoxicated last evening, which is the truth ; 
that he was near upsetting ten times in ten minutes ; that he 
alighted at a cabaret in the suburb of the city — ” 

“ Very well,” said Pierre ; “ then the horse ran away and has 
been going over the lande all night. Now fly, Amaury ; hide 
yourself in the furze, and don’t return until towards noon. You 
slept in the city.” 

The Corinthian hastened to alight and hide himself in the 
thickets. The marchioness had not strength enough to say a 
single word. Half fainting in the back of the carriage, she was 
in a nervous state which rendered very probable the story Pierre 
had undertaken to relate. 

He took the horse by the bridle, and helped him to get out of 
the swamp, walking before him, and satisfying himself with his 
foot of the solidity of the earth he made him pass over. When 
they reached the chateau, the first person they saw running to- 
wards them was Yseult, who had not gone to bed, and who, from 
her window, was exploring all the roads since daylight. 


278 


THE COMPANION 


Pierre informed her that he had found the marchioness alone 
in the carriage, drawn by the horse, who, after having run all 
night, was returning by chance ; that at the first moment she had 
strength enough to tell him how the accident had happened, and 
he told on this point the story he had arranged with the Corin- 
thian. Then he assisted mademoiselle de Villepreux to transport 
her cousin to her apartment, while the domestics examined the 
horse’s harness, which Pierre had taken the precaution to disar- 
range and to break in several places, in order to give the ap- 
pearance of a serious revolt on his part. This poor animal was 
the only one calumniated in consequence of the adventure. No 
body suspected the truth. Wolf, who had seen nothing, and who 
did not even remember how things had passed, could not excul- 
pate himself. He would have been dismissed, had not the mar- 
chioness, after having a nervous attack, earnestly requested that 
he should be forgiven. Pierre was thanked in the finest terms 
by the count de Villepreux. But nothing was worth so much to 
him as a single word from Yseult ; and as he still awaited it, he 
was about to return sadly to the workshop, when she approached 
him, extended her hand, and clasped his, before all the world, 
with a frank friendship of which her features confirmed the ra- 
diant expression. It was a different happiness from that of the 
Corinthian ; but perhaps it was not less. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


279 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

The bulletins of the Spanish war arrived every day more pom- 
pous for the official French army, and more alarming for the 
secretly organized army of carbonarism. 

The capitulation of Malaga had followed close upon that of 
Trocadero. Riego still held out, waiting for the same king who 
had tremblingly offered him his lighted cigar, to send him on an 
ass to execution. Ballesteros was treating with the due d’An- 
gouleme. Liberalism was nearly crushed in Spain, it was 
greatly discouraged in France. 

The count de Villepreux, whom the opposition had amused for 
several years, began to find the play too serious, and secretly 
repented that he had not confined his political part to parliament- 
ary struggles. Far from receiving Achille Lefort’s visit with 
his usual benevolence, he was frequently rough with him, and 
endeavored by his railleries to give him a disgust of propagand- 
ism. This was not an easy thing. In spite of Pierre Plugue- 
nin’s unanswerable objections, which he forgot as soon as he had 
heard them, Achille had but one idea in his head : this was to 
form a vente at Villepreux. He had five or six affiliates, he still 
required nine or ten to attain the desired number ; and he did not 
despair of soon finding them, in spite of the discouraging effect 
of the telegraphic news. He was one of those blindly devoted 
and presumptuously brave natures, which, from the fact of be- 
lieving in themselves, at last come to doubt of nothing. The 
more he saw the ranks thinned about him, the more did he flatter 
himself that he could fill them with fresh champions, better nerved 
for resistance. He therefore exerted himself to recruit right and 
left with more zeal than wisdom, not perceiving too well, the good 
young man, that he did less good to his cause by his heated de- 
clamations and his stormy haste, than he would have done with 
prudence and a little skill. 


280 


THE COMPANION 


Achille, supposing that an affiliate of the supreme vente would 
not dare throw obstacles in his way, had therefore established his 
head-quarters at Villepreux, using and abusing the pretext of 
selling wines and settling accounts, enduring with heroism the 
biting contradictions of his host, who began to treat him rather 
cavalierly, and before whom he did not raise his voice so high 
as he had done in the park, when he declaimed before Pierre Hu- 
guenin against the numskulls of the Chamber. 

In spite of the vexation which he occasioned him, the count 
nevertheless kept on terms with this variety who had warmly 
served his popularity in the province ^ and when he feared hav- 
ing wounded him, he brought him back by adroit flatteries given 
under the mask of a paternal roughness. The old liberalism 
flattered the youth of that day, waiting till, ascending in its turn 
the benches of the peerage, it should send them to prison to ex- 
piate the crime of secret association, a holy and sacred thing 
under the restoration, illegal and abominable under Louis 
Philippe. 

At evening, when the ordinary and extraordinany guests of the 
chateau had retired, Achille, having returned from his political 
excursions, came to give an account of all the work he had done. 
He did the count the honor to consider him as his superior, and 
the count was obliged to accept that character. Yseult was not 
excluded from these conversations. Besides that her grandfather 
had an entire confidence in her, the reports of the various suits 
brought against carbonarism had initiated her into all the mys- 
teries of the permanent conspiracy. While still a child, she had 
been launched into these dreams of political struggle ; and, like 
all young heads, her own had become exalted even to masculine 
bravery without losing that shade of ideal romance which cha- 
racterizes a great feminine nature. I cannot tell you if she was 
really, as they pretended, a daughter of Napoleon ; but it is cer- 
tain that there was something heroic in the turn of her mind, 
and an extreme originality in the independence of her character. 

With these dispositions, she must needs incline towards the 
opinion of Achille Lefort, and become bolder in her hopes as the 
danger increased. Between the old count and the young carbo- 
naro, she was as the pure mirror of truth, in which each of them 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


281 


could see the stains or the errors of his conscience thrown back 
by the impenetrable crystal. She always listened to her grand- 
father with respect ; but when she saw him falter, she sought 
the cause elsewhere than in a want of courage, and her can- 
dor intimidated the old man. When Achille allowed himself 
to be carried away by his presumption, she imagined he had had 
some extraordinary success in his enterprises ; and he, quite 
ashamed of the faith she had in him, blushed to feel that this 
faith had a poor foundation. The count would have preferred 
not to have her present at their interviews ; but Achille, knowing 
very well the ascendancy she exercised over him, took care to 
find them together in order to make his reports, and then M. de 
Villepreux did not dare display all his vexation and all his 
repugnance. 

It often happened that they spoke of Pierre Huguenin. Achille 
said he would be one of the best conquests he could make for his 
vente ; that there would be some difficulty in overcoming his 
objections, but that when once engaged they would find him a hero. 
Yseult said that she had the highest opinion of him, and that she 
should with joy see him enter upon frequent communications 
with her grandfather, and derive from those relations that politi- 
cal instruction for which so fine an understanding thirsted. 
Yseult still imagined that her grandfather bore within him some 
great revelation of the social idea which tormented the mechanic 
philosopher. 

“ Your Pierre Huguenin is a madman,” said the count to them 
one evening, when driven to extremity ; “ a deranged head, to 
be put in the same category with the cracked brain of M. Lefort. 
It is doubtless good that the common people should read Jean 
Jacques Rousseau and Montesquieu. I don’t laugh at that, my 
daughter, do you understand ? I am sure it will produce some- 
thing good. But let us give them time for digestion. What, the 
devil ! they have barely swallowed the manna when they are 
told to find the promised land ! The people of Moses required 
forty years for that, forty years which, in Biblical language, per- 
haps mean forty centuries, you must know. Leave them alone, 
then ; they ask only that. Are they far enough advanced to 
have anything to do with politics ? It is for us to seek what is 


282 


THE COMPANION 


most fitted for them, and to secure to them the best possible lot 
without consulting them ; for they cannot yet decide their own 
case. They would be judge and party !” 

u Are we not all in the same situation V 1 asked Yseult. 

“ But our education is completed; we have ideas of justice found- 
ed upon a certain science which they have not yet, and will not 
have very soon. Let us give them time to ascend to us, and let 
us not be so foolish as to descend to them. It is not necessary 
we should dirty our hands to please them ; they must wash theirs 
in order to resemble us.” 

“ But an immense political crisis is required, in order that they 
may have the time and the instinct to civilize themselves,” cried 
Lefort. 

“ So, my dear sir, we will bring about the crisis in fitting time 
and place, but without their assisting us too knowingly ; for, in 
that case, they would dictate the law to us on the next day, and 
that would be barbarism.” 

“But, father,” said Yseult, “it seems to me that we might 
educate and assist them to become civilized, in the meanwhile.” 

“ Most assuredly,” cried the count. “ In everything that does 
not openly relate to politics, we must extend the hand to them, 
encourage them, procure for them employment and instruction, 
excite in them the feeling of human dignity. Do I act otherwise 
with them 1 Do I not treat them as my equals ? Do I compel 
them to remain standing while they talk with me ? Do I not seek 
to develope all the germs of intelligence I perceive in them ?” 

“ Certainly, M. the count,” said Achille, “ your individual 
conduct is generous and frankly liberal ; but why are you un- 
willing that a certain initiation into the political movement should 
be a means of education for the intelligent and courageous pro- 
letaries ? Do you then believe that Pierre Huguenin does not 
understand what we are about as well as I do ?” 

“ That is not saying much, perhaps,” replied the count; laugh- 
ing, “ and even yet he is not there ; the proof is, that he repels 
you and makes you entreat him.” 

Some days after this conversation, Yseult, walking in the park 
with Achille, and talking at the moment about Pierre Huguenin, 
saw the latter coming towards them from the direction of the 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


283 


workshop. “ I have a desire to address him,” said she, “ and to 
see if I shall not succeed better than you. I should be proud to 
effect his conversion, and to be able to announce it to my grand- 
father this evening.” 

“ I fear very much that M. the count no longer cares for any 
political conversion,” replied Achille, who was himself somewhat 
discouraged on that day. 

“You are mistaken, sir,” replied Yseult, who did not cease to 
see in her grandfather a patriarch of the revolution ; “ I know 
his inclinations better than you do. He has severe attacks of 
sadness ; but a good word, a generous sentiment, the least act of 
courage and patriotism, such, for instance, as Pierre Huguenin’s 
adhesion to your projects, would be sufficient to reawaken that 
noble enthusiasm which we know is in him. Are you willing to 
call Pierre, that I may talk with him ? Would you advise me 
to it ?” 

“ Why not ?” replied Achille, whose self-love was somewhat 
interested in overcoming the proud refusals of the mechanic. 
“A woman’s eloquence may do miracles !” 

He ran to seek him. But, instead of bringing him to made- 
moiselle de Villepreux, and remaining as a third in the conver- 
sation, as she expected, he withdrew, fearing lest his presence 
should restore to Pierre the strength of argumentation, and de- 
pending somewhat on the confusion and embarrassment which a 
tete-a-tete with the young chatelaine must needs produce in him. 

On seeing herself decidedly alone with Pierre, Yseult was 
herself seized with a timidity before unknown to her, and re- 
mained for some moments without being able to enter upon the 
subject. Pierre was so confused on his part, that he did not per- 
ceive it, and he attributed to the buzzing which he heard in his 
ears the interrupted and incomprehensible meaning of Yseult’s 
first words. At last they both succeeded in becoming calm and 
understanding each other. Yseult spoke to him with that exal- 
tation of patriotism which had, at that period, its current phrase- 
ology, more glittering in words than rich in facts and ideas. 
Nevertheless, the distinction which good taste and grace of mind 
knew how to give to her expressions, her elegant and melodious 
diction, the voice of an agitated and persuaded woman, the pure 


284 


THE COMPANION 


and deep feeling which impelled the young girl in this act of 
proselytism, threw so great a charm into her discourse, that 
Pierre, overcome and transported, felt his face bathed in tears. 
We must also make allowance for the ingenuousness of the hear- 
er, and for love, which had there introduced his delicate and 
trembling shaft. There was no resistance possible against such 
an assault, no distrust before such a conviction, no plebeian pride 
to repel so touching a seduction. His reason received a violent 
shock. With his limited experience, and at the age when senti- 
ment governs the whole being, it was impossible that he should 
not yield at discretion. Yseult, receiving blindly the double- 
sided theories of her grandfather, and seeing only the beautiful 
face of his intentions and promises, endeavored to remove the 
prejudices of Pierre by persuading him of what she herself be- 
lieved : that the old man prudently concealed the ardor of his 
republicanism, while waiting for the day when he could bring it 
into practice. 

“ I was deceived,” said Pierre to himself, as he listened to her ; 
“ I have been unjust towards the father and teacher of such a 
daughter. The soul of a coward and a traitor could not have 
formed this heroine, brave as Joan of Arc, eloquent as madame 
de Stael. Yes, I endeavored to close my eyes to the light, and 
my repugnances were only the blindness of pride. The people 
has its friends in the higher classes, it misunderstands and repels 
them. We are deaf and coarse, I, first of all, who have misun- 
derstood this voice from heaven and resisted this superhuman 
power.” 

These reflections came to the lips of Pierre Huguenin without 
his being conscious of what he said, so much was his soul ele- 
vated and inundated by joy and love. 

“ Then you distrusted us ?” said the young patrician to him ; 
“ you did not appreciate my father, the most sincere and the 
greatest of men ! But do you distrust me who am speaking to 
you, master Pierre ? Do you believe that one can deceive at 
my age ? Do you not feel that there is in the depths of my 
heart an inextinguishable thirst for justice and equality ? Do you 
not know that all the books which have formed your mind have 
formed mine also ? What a perverse being should I be then if 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


285 


I could have read Jean Jacques and Franklin without being 
penetrated with the truth ! Do you believe that I have not made 
my father relate to me those great epochs of the revolution in 
which the men of destiny pursued and defended the principle 
of popular sovereignty at the expense of their lives, their repu- 
tations and their own hearts, tearing, from their bosoms, by a 
sublime effort, every human feeling in order to save humanity ? 
Yes, my grandfather understands all that, and admires all those 
men, from Mirabeau to Robespierre, from Barnave to Danton. 
And, besides, do you believe I have drawn no instruction from 
Christianity ? We women are born and grow up in Catholicism, 
whatever may be the philosophy of our fathers. Well ! the gos- 
pel has for us great lessons of fraternal equality, which men 
are perhaps unacquainted with ; and, for myself, I adore in the 
Christ his obscure birth, his humble apostles, his poverty and his 
freedom from all human pride, all the popular and divine poem 
of his life crowned by martyrdom. If I withdraw from the 
church, it is because the priests, by making themselves the 
ministers of temporal power and the agents of despotism, have 
become traitors to the thought of their master, and altered the 
spirit of his doctrine. But I, I feel ready to practise it to the 
letter. No suffering, no poverty, no labor, will repel me, if 
necessary to enable me to share the sorrows of the people. No 
dungeon, no punishment will terrify me, if necessary to proclaim 
my faith. Now, Pierre, I swear to you that I have never 
tljpught of my riches and my liberty without feeling remorse, on 
account of the poor who are forgotten, and the prisoners who are 
tortured. I have sometimes fallen into errors of judgment ; I 
have yielded to the habits of luxury ; I have uttered words con- 
secrated in the world by custom and prejudice. But if it were 
necessary to do something great, if it were necessary to give my 
life as an expiation for those hours of ignorance and apathy, 
believe me, I should thank God for freeing me from all these 
miserable bonds in which my soul languishes and blushes at 
itself. I do not say all these things to boast of myself before 
you, but that you may know how my grandfather has educated 
me, and what sentiments he has instilled into my heart. Do you 
believe them sincere V’ 


286 


THE COMPANION 


Pierre was intoxicated, out of his senses. The fever which 
burned in Yseult’s veins passed into his. Both believed them- 
selves transported by faith alone, and that they had at this 
moment no other bond than that of virtue. Still it was love 
which had assumed this form, and undertaken to kindle in them 
the flame of revolutionary enthusiasm. 

“ Do with me what you will,” said Pierre. “ Ask of me my 
life — that is saying too little — dispose of my conscience, I will 
believe in you as in God ; I will allow myself to be led blindfold ; 
if you will deign only to say a few words to me to reanimate my 
faith and my hope — ” 

“Faith, hope, and charity,” replied Yseult, “that is the device 
of the association you are requested to join. Is there any more 
beautiful ?” 

Pierre promised everything ; and, when Achille rejoined them, 
Yseult presented him as a brother acquired for the holy cause. 
The astonishment and joy of the travelling clerk were at their 
height, when Pierre confirmed his submission by a solemn 
promise. “ I begin to believe that mademoiselle de Buonaparte 
is a master woman,” cried Lefort, rubbing his hands when 
Yseult had retired. “Vive Dieu ! I have changed my opinion 
respecting her, master Pierre ! She has been admirable in all 
the attacks we have made upon grand-papa ; she is a real 
mountaineer. Her little finger is worth more than all the rest 
of the family. The devil take me if, in your place, I should not 
fall in love with her.” • 

Achille’s prosaism, upon this matter, was very irksome to 
Pierre Pluguenin. “ Do not laugh at me, I beg of you,” replied 
he, “ and do not speak lightly of a person who is above us both 
by her mind and her character.” 

“ Oh ho ! I did not think I should hit so true,” returned Achille, 
struck by the emotion of the young mechanic. “But why do you 
think I laugh at you, friend Pierre ? Has not our age finally 
entered upon the path of reason and philosophy ? Do you think 
that a person so frankly republican as mademoiselle de Villepreux 
must not consider a man like you absolutely her equal ? I assure 
you, and I can do it, that she appreciates you perfectly, and that 
she has not the shadow of a prejudice, especially now that you 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


287 


are one of us, and that carbonarism will bring you into correspon- 
dence, at every moment of your life and upon all points of 
politics — 3 

“ You are nothing but an exploiter !” cried Pierre, deeply 
irritated at the frivolity with which Achille played with the 
secret of his soul ; “ yes, you exploit all things, even the most 
sacred. In order to gain me to your cause, you do not blush to 
excite in me the most foolish and the most absurd ideas ; but do 
you think I am stupid enough to let myself be taken by them V 3 

Achille did not allow himself to be rebuffed by the pride of his 
friend, and, without caring for his resistance, he compelled him 
to listen to all the good Yseult said of him. 

Achille did not lie ; only he related brutally, and interpreted 
events with an incredible boldness. Pierre suffered while listen- 
ing to him, but he did listen ; and an irresistible joy, an insensate 
hope struck, in spite of him, the last blow upon his reason. He 
passed that night and the following days in a sort of delirium ; 
and Achille, who had undertaken to indoctrinate him every day, 
perceived that he did not listen, that he thought neither of philoso- 
phy nor of politics, but that, overpowered by passion, he was in 
his hands like a child. 


288 


THE COMPANION 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Achille, not knowing how to complete his vente, had indeed 
turned his eyes towards the Corinthian ; but the latter felt only 
aversion for him, and Pierre advised the propagandist to think of 
any other adept. 

The Corinthian, not understanding that there was a political 
bond between the count de Villepreux and Achille Lefort, and 
not imagining that the latter had anything to do with carbonarism 
at the chateau, had got it into his head that he was retained there 
by the beautiful eyes of the marchioness. It is certain that, in 
the midst of his revolutionary preoccupations, Achille was not so 
much absorbed that a ray of that beauty had not struck and some- 
what agitated his brain. He made for her sake toilets almost as 
ridiculous as those of Isidore, but after a different style. He 
took advantage of his thick hair and his black whiskers a la 
Bergami, to make for himself a head a caraclere ; and as he was 
very well in his person and might pass in a province for a pretty 
youth, as he had a facility in expressing himself, and a kind of 
table d’hdte eloquence which might easily produce an effect upon 
a person so little enlightened as Josephine, we could not affirm 
that he would absolutely have lost his pains, had he reached the 
chateau a week sooner. But Josephine was in such a disposition 
of mind that she no longer dared to raise her eyes upon any one. 
Dismayed at her fall, frightened at everything, she kept herself 
almost constantly in her chamber since the adventure of the 
mists ; and Amaury, the victim of a thousand anxieties, passing 
from gratitude to vexation, and from hope to jealousy, did not 
know if he should ever be allowed to see her again. He no 
longer perceived her but at a distance, through the trees. After 
dinner, the family took coffee upon a terrace covered with orange 
trees, which Amaury could see from the workshop. At that hour, 
he always had some work to do on the windows, and, mounted on 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


289 


a ladder, he looked down upon the terrace, followed all the move- 
ments of the languishing marchioness, and remarked very clearly 
the earnest attentions of which she was the object on the part of 
Achille Lefort. He felt great need of opening his heart to his 
friend Pierre, and of asking his advice ; the more that he had 
nothing to reveal to him, since chance had initiated him into the 
secret of his love. But Pierre seemed to avoid his confidences. 
Himself the victim of a dream from which he feared to be com- 
pelled to awaken, he buried himself in solitude as soon as his 
day’s work was done. Pie wandered in the park in the same 
places where he had met Yseult, not daring to hope to meet her 
again, and meeting her there almost always, either with Achille 
Lefort, and coming directly towards him, or alone, appearing not 
to seek him, and yet not avoiding him. Their conversations 
always turned upon general ideas. No external familiarity had 
been established between them ; but the intimacy of heart in- 
creased and gained strength. There was a mutual esteem and 
admiration which found each day new aliments and new causes. 

In that portion of the park the vegetation was very thick, and 
there was no danger of being troubled by the malignant inter- 
pretations of the curious. It was a quarter closed by a slight 
barrier, and devoted to the cultivation of the beautiful flowers 
in which Yseult delighted. Guests, relatives and domestics were 
accustomed to respect this reserved park, and never to enter it 
whether the gate was open or shut. There was in it an aviary 
and a fountain in the middle of a grass plot interspersed with 
beds of flowers. Around this piece of turf a double row of trees 
and shrubs formed a circular alley. A wooden trellis enclosed 
the whole. Pierre usually met mademoiselle de Villepreux at 
a short distance from this enclosure. When she was with Achille, 
she' invited both to enter. When she was alone, she walked 
several times in front of the entrance gate with Pierre ; and when 
she judged that the interview had been long enough, she entered 
her garden, after having wished him good evening with a simple 
and chaste grace which Pierre understood and respected even to 
adoration. Then he rapidly withdrew and went to await her 
coming at the end of the alley, concealed in a clump of trees. 
He was happy at seeing her pass ; and when the night was too 
14 


290 


THE COMPANION 


dark to distinguish her slight form, he was still happy at hearing 
the rustling of her dress upon the grass. For nothing in the 
world would Pierre have wished to approach her at that moment. 
He felt the value of the confidence she reposed in him by meet- 
ing him always with benevolence, and he understood what was 
proper and what was not, much better than certain persons to 
whom constant communication with the world never gives either 
tact or moderation. Thus, he made, respecting these walks and 
meetings, observations as delicate as could have been made by 
a man of the most exquisite manners. He remarked, among 
other things, that as mademoiselle de Villepreux never entered 
the reserved park alone with him, so neither did she enter it 
alone with Achille. On the days when he arrived last at these 
tacit rendezvous (which was very seldom), he found her with the 
young carbonaro, walking up and down the outer alley ; and 
when they three had made several turns together, she said gaily : 
“ Let us go and see the birds !” Then they went into the gar- 
den ; and, if Pierre testified any hesitation, she insisted upon his 
entering. 

One evening, Pierre, who, in spite of himself, retained a slight 
jealous suspicion, hid himself in his accustomed retreat ; it was 
a large tufted maple, which grew from a clump and leaned over 
the alley. By climbing this tree he was perfectly concealed, 
and could see and hear everything. He saw Yseult arrive with 
Achille ; he saw them pass and repass beneath him ; he heard 
them talk, as on other days, of conspiracy, revolution, constitu- 
tion. There was a moment when Achille stopped under the 
maple, saying : 

“ It seems we shall not see our friend Pierre this evening.” 

“ That is singular,” replied Yseult, “ for we see him almost 
every evening. He is greedy of your teachings.” 

“ Or rather of yours, mademoiselle.” 

“ Mine ! What can I teach him ? It much rather seems to 
me that I learn a great deal by conversing with that man of the 
people, who appears to me really wise and turned to great things. 
Does he not appear the same to you, M. Lefort ?” 

Achille had guessed Yseult’s secret. He favored this myste- 
rious inclination by pretending not to perceive anything. He 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


291 


was led to this, not only in view of his carbonarism, but by the 
real affection he felt for Pierre ; and then by the attraction which 
an adventure of this kind always has for young minds ; and then 
perhaps in fine by the pleasure of thus avenging himself in a 
certain manner for the contempt of the old count. He was there 
as a kind of sentimental go-between in a romance the most chaste 
and the most serious, while it was at the same time the most 
senseless and the least realizable. To look upon that romance 
from the broad point of view of natural justice and of philo- 
sophical reason, there could be nothing more moral and more 
elevated ; to look at it through the narrow loop-hole of custom 
and of social proprieties, it was something absurd and revolting. 
Achille saw both faces, admiring the one and being amused at 
the other, with that deep rancor which the citizen race cherish 
against the patrician. 

He therefore omitted no opportunity of bringing the chatelaine 
and the mechanic in contact. It was he who, at the hour of the 
grandfather’s daily siesta, led the young daughter, from one po- 
litical argument to another, as far as the alley of the reserved 
park. It was therefore owing to him that Pierre heard with what 
sympathy Yseult expressed herself respecting him. He was 
astonished at the ardor with which Lefort excelled her in prais- 
ing him, and he remarked that nothing was said about going to 
see the birds. When it was quite night, and they had lost all 
hope of seeing him, they returned to the chateau ; and Pierre, 
freed from his jealousy, drunk with joy, went to sup at his fa- 
ther’s with the Berrichon, whom he found witty, and old Lacrete, 
who seemed a genius, so inclined was he to benevolence that 
evening. “ Well and good,” said father Huguenin to him, “ now 
you are joyous and a good boy ! Do you know, Pierre, that 
you often put on too grand airs with your family ? You have 
too much to do with the nobles, my child ; that spoils the heart 
and the mind.” 

There was then no stranger at the chateau but Lefort. M. 
Lerebours was busy in the press-house overseeing the fermenta- 
tion of the new vintage. Raoul passed his life in the neighboring 
chateaux, where he found more amusement, and where he was 
not obliged to be on his guard in order not to cuff that dirty phi - 


292 


THE COMPANION 


losopher, that philanthropist of the gutter , that tavern orator , — in a 
word, that lore of a Lefort. 

There are hours of impunity ia chateau life which. pass all 
probability. The two young ladies were going through one of 
those phases in which everything seems to favor the forgetfulness 
of the world and the flights of the imagination. One evening 
Josephine was weeping, with her elbow resting upon the window 
sill. She desired to see the Corinthian again, but she did not 
dare to ; she was not sure that everybody had not guessed her 
secret, and she asked herself which she must choose, the contempt 
of the world, or that of the man whom she abandoned, after 
having abandoned herself to him. Suddenly she heard a dull 
noise behind a little door cut in the wainscotting of her alcove, 
and which had perhaps protected the loves of some chatelaine of 
the time of the League with some happy page, during the absence 
of the warring husband. That door opened into a passage which, 
in the thickness of the walls, made several turns around the cha- 
teau, and finished without issue. This mysterious passage had 
been walled up, being looked upon as useless. But a trap situated 
in the wainscotting of the chapel had led the ardent Corinthian 
from discovery to discovery, and from rubbish to rubbish as far 
as this closing wall. By means of calculating and measuring 
his distances, he had divined that a certain secret door, situated 
in the apartment of the marchioness, and of which mademoiselle 
Julie, her chamber-maid, sometimes spoke in the kitchen as a 
retreat for ghosts, must open exactly at the spot where he was 
stopped. He had taken a lamp, a bar, and a hammer, and buried 
himself in the labyrinth. He had been three days at work 
piercing the wall. The noise of his hammer was deadened by 
the thickness of the masonry. It was a painful and palpitating 
enterprise, like that of a prisoner who works to effect his escape. 
When the wall was pierced the noise became audible, and the 
marchioness, who was no less superstitious than her chamber- 
maid, was seized with such a fright that she fled to the bottom 
of the staircase to call for help; but I know not what instinct of 
prudence prevented her from yielding to this fear, and from men- 
tioning it in the saloon, where the family always assembled from 
ten o’clock to midnight after the count’s siesta. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


293 


During this time, Amaury had opened the breach and reached 
the secret door. He found it locked inside ; but having shaken 
it and swished himself that the noise attracted no one, he opened 
it with a wire. Now, certain of his victory, he locked the door 
with a double turn, and carried away the key. 

When he returned to the workshop, he hastened to repair the 
panel of which he alone had discovered the mysterious use. He 
replaced it himself, so that no one should touch it and become asso- 
ciated with him in his secret ; but he so arranged it that he could 
remove it without difficulty or noise whenever he wished ; and, 
this enterprise accomplished, triumphing in his thought of the 
terrors of the marchioness, and defying Achille Lefort to supplant 
him, or at least to deceive him, he rejoined Pierre Huguenin, at 
the moment when the latter received from his father, for the 
hundredth time, the advice to distrust the good offices of the 
nobility. 

Thenceforth, the Corinthian tasted a terrible happiness, and 
one which decided the rest of his life. Protected by the impunity 
secured by his discovery of the secret passage, he knew love 
in all its power, and in all its refinement. It was the first 
time that Josephine had been loved, and it was the only time that 
she loved. Certainly, their passion had not the ideal and the 
really angelic chastity of that which Yseult and Pierre Huguenin 
experienced. While these last overcame attraction and even the 
thought of pleasure by the enthusiasm of their minds and the aus- 
terity of their faith, the Corinthian and the marchioness, subjugated 
by the energy of their passion, were intoxicated with their mutual 
youth and their equal beauty. But at least it was a sincere love, 
and in a certain manner pure ; for they believed in each other, and 
they believed in themselves. They swore to each other a fidelity 
of which the feeling was in them, and there were moments of ex- 
altation in which the marchioness dreamt of a sublime courage to 
proclaim Amaury her lover and her husband in the face of the 
whole world, on the day when the marquis des Frenays, yielding 
to the premature infirmities which threatened him, should leave her 
free to form a new tie. Amaury did not look at the future under 
this aspect; he cared little if the marquis des Frenays chose to 
live or die, and if Josephine could become reconciled with society 


294 


THE COMPANION 


and with the Church. He did not remember that she was rich ; 
he had a profound contempt for riches not acquired by his own 
talents. He saw in her only a young, beautiful, and impassioned 
woman ; he adored her thus, and besought her to love him al- 
ways, he swearing to render himself soon worthy of the happiness 
she had granted him, and of the confidence she had in his star. 
The idea of glory was connected in his mind with that of his 
love. There was in him a pride full of boldness and of gratitude. 

Certainly, this feeling had in itself nothing culpable or insensate. 
But it soon had the fate of all the intoxications into which a man 
plunges without an ideal of virtufe or of religion. We have all 
indeed the right to be happy, to aspire to works of genius and 
the suffrages of mankind. We are allowed to be proud of the 
object of our love, and to count upon the victories of our intelligent 
will. But this is not all the life of man ; and, if the love of self 
is not closely bound to the love of our kind, this ambition, which 
might have triumphed over all obstacles in the state of devoted- 
ness, suffers, becomes embittered, and threatens to fall at every 
step, when it remains in the state of selfishness. Love, which 
extends this selfishness to two beings melted into one alone, is not 
enough to legitimatize it. It is beautiful and divine as a means, 
as a help, and as an aegis : it is poor and miserable as an object 
and an only end. 

The Corinthian was not selfish, in the low and mean accepta- 
tion given to this vice. As a friend he was tender and devoted ; 
as a companion he had always shown himself serviceable and 
generous ; as a lover, he was neither ungrateful nor proud ; he 
remained respectful and repentant in his heart towards the Savi- 
nienne. But his soul was more impetuous than strong, his ge- 
nius more grasping than powerful. He bore in his bosom all the 
dangerous curiosities, all the insatiable desires of youth. It was 
therefore a misfortune for him to meet with the love of Josephine 
in the midst of the developement of his being, at that hour of 
life in which we receive from circumstances a decisive impulse 
without having the strength necessary to appreciate, direct, or 
combat it. Perhaps the virtuous and solid Pierre Huguenin 
would not have been better tempered for such a trial. Perhaps 
he would not have loved in a more exquisite manner, if, instead 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


295 


of meeting an apostolic soul like Yseult’s, he had been exposed 
to the same seductions as his friend. However this may be, 
the Corinthian was rapidly corrupted in his happiness, and poor 
Josephine, even while bringing to it all the yielding and ingenu- 
ousness of her gentle character, was to him the fatal apple which, 
from the celestial garden of adolescence, was to send him forth 
in exile to the arid desert of positive life. 

Achille had left the chateau for a season. He had found that 
he could organize a vente more easily on the side of Poitou, and 
he had gone thither at the call of some brother of the fraternity 
as tenacious as himself in the support of carbonarism, now ready 
to perish. Pie was nevertheless to return for the purpose of com- 
pleting and consecrating that of Villepreux, which he did not re- 
nounce the least in the world, and which he wished to baptize, in 
order to please mademoiselle de Villepreux, La Jean-Jacques 
Rousseau. 

His departure filled with sorrow and fear the heart of Pierre 
Huguenin. He imagined that he should no longer have an op- 
portunity or a reason for meeting Yseult in the park. But sud- 
denly Providence, or rather the modest complicity of love, sug- 
gested happy pretexts for new interviews. 

A storm had overthrown the aviary of the reserved park. Yseult 
appeared extraordinarily attached to her birds, and she asked 
Pierre Pluguenin to construct a new abode for them. He at 
once made a plan of a pretty little temple of wood and brass 
wire, which was to enclose the basin and the fountain, with its 
great margins of turf, of reeds, and moss for the aquatic birds. 
Shrubs of quite a large size were to be contained entire in this 
spacious cage ; climbing plants were to envelop it with an exter- 
nal n^t of verdure ; lastly a great parasol of zinc was to protect 
from\ji'e rain and too great heat of the sun the delicate birds of 
foreign Vegions. 

The itnpatience which Yseult testified to see the erection of 
this ornithological monument induced father Huguenin to consent 
that his son and the Berrichon should devote themselves to it for 
some days. A fortnight was to be enough for this work, but it 
lasted a great while longer. 

At first the Berrichon understood nothing about it. It did no 


296 


THE COMPANION 


good for him to affirm that Pierre was more difficult than usual, 
and to declare that it was unjust to make him recommence mi- 
nutely some parts which he had arranged with all possible care ; 
Pierre, proving to him with gentleness, but with perseverance, 
that this work was too delicate for him, employed him only in 
preparing the pieces at the workshop, and in running in every 
direction on a thousand commissions every day. He sent him 
three times to the neighboring city for some iron wire. The 
first was too fine, the second too coarse, the third was neither fine 
enough nor coarse enough. At least, it was thus the Berriehon, 
in his naive dissatisfaction, relatecf the matter to the Corinthian, 
to the latter’s great amusement. The fact was, that when the 
Berriehon was with Pierre the whole day, mademoiselle de Vil- 
lepreux came to examine the work only once or twice ; and 
when Pierre was alone she came three or four times, and re- 
mained longer. She was not alone at the beginning. The mar- 
chioness or her father accompanied her, and the gardener was 
almost always in the garden. But by degrees she became accus- 
tomed to come alone, and to remain, even after sunset and the 
gardener’s departure. Pierre saw clearly that she began to free 
herself, without noticing it, from the yoke of proprieties to which 
she had hitherto been blindly submissive. He was at first grate- 
ful to her for this observance ; for he had comprehended that she 
did not treat him as a thing, but as a man, and that this chaste 
reserve indicated, not mistrust, but a kind of respect for his posi- 
tion : it was like a long and delicate reparation which she gave 
him for the memorable speech of the turret. When she forgot 
this assumed part, and no longer feared to remain alone with him 
in the reserved park, he was still more grateful to her for this 
freedom ; since it was the mark of a holy confidence and almost 
fraternal tranquillity of soul. Pierre, far from suffering at these 
calm and pure relations, blessed and cherished them, not dream- 
ing of others, and not aspiring to the dangerous happiness which 
fevered the Corinthian. He loved too much to desire- Yseult 
appeared to him like a celestial being whom he would have 
feared to profane by simply grazing the fold of her dress. He 
indeed trembled in all his body at seeing her approaching from 
the end of the alley, and his hand could then hardly sustain the 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


297 


weight of his hammer or his chisel. When he heard her name 
him, a burning blush covered his face ; and if sometimes the 
visions of the night brought her image to him in the midst of an 
involuntary delirium, a kind of sorrowing shame bowed his head 
the next day, and kept his eyes cast down in her presence. But 
when she spoke to him, she stirred his whole soul, and made him 
again ascend into those high regions of enthusiasm, where there 
is no longer either confusion or terror, because there is there the 
feeling of an intellectual hymen as legitimate as it is indissoluble. 

No one thought of blaming these relations, or rather no one 
had remarked them. It was known that the count had educated 
his daughter in the ideas and customs of a certain equality with 
everybody. Besides the habits of independence which he had 
given her, that philosophical education which some called Eng- 
lish and others d V Emile, and which had made of her a person so 
natural and so calm, averted all unpleasant suppositions. The 
servants as well as neighbors had an instinctive respect or indif- 
ference for that grave and solitary humor which they did not com- 
prehend, and which they attributed to an organic languor. Her 
paleness had caused it to be said of her, ever since she was in 
the world : “ That child will not live.” And yet she had never 
been ill ; but as she had not had the impetuous gaiety of child- 
hood, it was not supposed that her passions would ever be deve- 
loped, and that having forgotten to be a little girl she would ever 
think of becoming a woman. Such was the opinion of those 
who had seen her infancy and growth. As to those who, not 
knowing her, saw in her only the pretended daughter of the 
emperor, they would willingly have built respecting her roman- 
ces more beautiful in their opinion, than an intrigue with a jour- 
neyman joiner. 

It happened that at the village fete Pierre heard some indis- 
creetly curious remarks upon this subject, and could not help 
taking them up. The next day, while he was at work on the 
aviary, Yseult came, as usual, to play with her tame roebuck, 
which lived in the reserved park, and to feed the young birds 
she was bringing up in temporary cages. Then she took her 
book, and walked several times along her flower borders ; and 
at last she came towards Pierre, to whom she had simply said, 
14 * 


298 


THE COMPANION 


“ Good day,” and seemed determined to enter into conversation. 
Pierre saw very well that there was something unusual in her 
manner : for she was accustomed to approach him more openly, 
to ask about his father, and to relate the news of the gazettes, 
while he assisted her to unfasten the roebuck, or to close the 
cages. 

“ Master Pierre,” said she to him, smiling significantly, “ I 
have a fancy to-day : it is to know what is said of me in the 
neighborhood.” 

“ How could I inform you, mademoiselle ?” replied Pierre, 
Surprised and intimidated at this request. 

“ Oh ! you could do so very well,” replied she good-humored- 
ly, “ for you know ; and it seems that you have the goodness to 
be my champion, sometimes. Julie has told my cousin that you 
silenced, yesterday, under the arbor, two young persons who 
spoke of me rather singularly. But her account was so well 
turned that madame des Frenays understood hardly anything of 
it. Could you not tell me, quite simply, what was said of me, 
and upon what observations you declared yourself my defender ?” 

“ Perhaps I ought to ask your pardon for having done so,” 
replied Pierre, with embarrassment ; “ for there are persons so 
far above the attacks of stupidity, that it is almost an insult to 
defend them.” 

“ No matter,” returned mademoiselle de Villepreux, “ I know 
that you pleaded my cause with zeal, and I am grateful for it ; 
but I wish to know of what I was accused. Really, do not 
refuse to satisfy my curiosity.” 

Pierre was more and more troubled, and did not know how 
to relate the affair. Yseult insisted with a gay sang froid 
which was peculiar to her, and, in order to hear better, came 
near and seated herself composedly upon a rustic chair, with a 
certain half sisterly, half queen-like manner, which she alone in 
the world knew how to preserve in the smallest actions of her 
life. Forced in his last entrenchments, and feeling indeed that 
he ought to give an account of his conduct in a circumstance 
when he had publicly spoken of her, he armed himself with 
resolution ; and, endeavoring to be cheerful, though he trembled 
and suffered a thousand tortures, he thus related to her the anec- 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


290 


dote of the day before : “ I was seated under the arbor with the 
Corinthian and some others of my friends, when several young 
persons, lawyers’ clerks and sons of farmers in the neighbor- 
hood, came to drink beer beside us. They spoke to us first, and 
after many idle questions, they asked us if the young ladies of 
the chateau danced at the village fetes, and if they could be 
asked. You had just passed near the arbor with M. the count 
and madam the marchioness des Frenays. The Corinthian took 
upon himself to answer that neither of. you danced. I do not 
know if he did well, and if it would not have been better to have 
replied that he knew nothing about it. At least this is what I 
should have answered in his place. One of those persons then 
said that madam des Frenays danced every Sunday in the war- 
ren with the peasants, that he was very sure of it, and even that 
he had been told she danced charmingly. The Corinthian did 
not like the face of that person ; it is certain that he had quite 
an impertinent tone, and that, every time he put his elbow on the 
table, he disarranged our cloth and made something fall. The 
Berrichon had picked up his knife three times, and he lost 
patience even more than the Corinthian. And as that person, 
who is, I believe, a horse-dealer, insisted always on the same 
point, and said that Amaury had answered him improperly, the 
Berrichon took part in the conversation, and pretended that, if 
the marchioness did dance with the people of the village, it was 
no reason why she should dance with strangers. But really, I 
do not see, mademoiselle, how this story can interest you.” 

“ It interests me a great deal, on the contrary, and I request 
you to continue,” said Yseult. And, as Pierre hesitated, she 
added, to assist him : “ Those fine gentlemen then said that, if 
we did not dance with strangers, we were impertinent minxes. 
Come, tell me everything ; you see very well that it amuses, 
and cannot vex me.” 

“ Well, so be it ! They did say that, since you absolutely 
wish to know.” 

“ And they said something else besides ?” 

“ I do not remember.” 

“ Ah ! you are deceiving me, master Pierre ! They said of 


300 


THE COMPANION 


me in particular that I was wrong to play the princess, for my 
history was well known.” 

“ That is true,” said Pierre, blushing. 

“ But I myself wish to know my history ! That is what 
interests me, and what that stupid Julia could not be persuaded 
to tell my cousin.” 

Pierre was on the rack. The history interested him much 
more than it did Yseult. What would he not have given to 
know the truth ! An opportunity was at last presented to learn 
it from the replies of mademoiselle de Villepreux, or to guess it 
from her countenance ; but it seemed to him that in articulating 
the fact he should allow the agitation of his soul to be seen, and 
that his secret would come to his lips, or into his eyes. At last 
he took his part with a despairing courage. “ Well, since you 
exact it of me, I shall repeat it,” said he, “ they pretended that 
you had wished to marry a young savant who was tutor to mon- 
sieur your brother, that the young man was driven away in 
disgrace, and that you almost died of sorrow.” 

“And that, but for this catastrophe,” returned Yseult, who 
listened with a terrible sang-froid, “ I should have preserved the 
complexion of lilies and roses which are seen to bloom upon my 
cousin’s cheeks ?” 

“ They did say something like that.” 

“ And what did you answer to this last head of their accu- 
sations ?” 

“ I might have answered that I had seen you at five or six 
years old, and that you were as pale then as you are now ; but I 
did t think of denying the effect, so busy was I in denying the 
cause 

“ Do you really remember to have seen me when a child, mas- 
ter Pierre V 9 

“ The first time you came here, you had your hair short as a 
little boy’s, but it was as black as it is now ; you always wore 
a white dress with a black girdle, in consequence of your mourn- 
ing for your father : you see that I have a good memory.” 

“ And I remember that you brought me two ring-doves in a 
cage, and that you made the cage yourself. I gave you a pic- 
ture-book, an abridgment of natural history.” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


301 


“ Which I have still !” 

“ Oh ! really ? But this is a digression which will not make 
me lose sight of what I wish to know. What did you reply to 
those persons ?” 

“ That they did not know what they were talking about, and 
that there was but little invention in their romances.” 

“ And then they were vexed ?” 

“ A little. But when they saw that we were not in the least 
afraid of them, they left the table, saying that the mistake was 
on their part, because when they seated themselves by the side 
of clowns they ought to have expected to be spattered. If I had 
not held the Berrichon by main force I believe we should have 
fought. I should have been much grieved had such a thing hap- 
pened in consequence of a conversation in which you had been 
named.” 

Yseult smiled with an air of thankfulness, and remained silent for 
some moments. It is impossible to express all that Pierre suffered 
while waiting for her remarks. At last she spoke, and said to 
him, with a serious air : 

“ Now, master Pierre, tell me why you were indignant at the 
accusation brought against me ? Would the fact of my having 
wished to marry a little schoolmaster appear to you so shameful 
and so criminal that it was necessary, for the sake of denying it, 
to expose yourself to tell a falsehood ?” 

Pierre became pale and did not answer. He heard nothing 
of the question full of clearness which was addressed to him ; 
he thought only of the passion she seemed to confess, and which 
precipitated him from heaven to earth. 

“ Come,” resumed mademoiselle de Villepreux, in that short 
and rather absolute tone which recalled, as was pretended, that 
of the emperor, “ you must answer me, master Pierre. I value 
my reputation, you must know, and wish to establish it clearly 
in the minds of persons whom I esteem. Why did you deny 
that I could have loved a professor of Latin. Say !” 

“ I did not deny it. I simply said that any kind of supposition 
respecting certain persons was impertinent and misplaced on the 
part of certain people.” 

“ That is very aristocratic, master Pierre ; I don’t go so far 


302 


THE COMPANION 


as you : I am, you know, for the freedom of the press, for liberty 
of suffrage, for liberty of conscience, for all public liberties. It 
would, therefore, be inconsistent to ask for an exception in my 
favor.” 

“ Doubtless I was wrong to take it up in the manner I did ; 
but I should be no wiser were the same thing to happen again. 
It pained me to hear your name in the mouths of those coarse 
boasters.” 

“ Well, I absolve you ; but it is on condition that you will tell 
me what I asked you just now. In what do you blame — ” 

“Mon Dieu, I blame nothing 4-” cried Pierre, whose heart was 
bleeding at this play. “ If you have the idea of marrying a 
savant, I consider it quite as proud as to wish to marry a general, 
a duke, or a banker.” 

“So you would not be my champion under such circum- 
stances ? You would accuse me, on the contrary ?” 

“ Accuse you ! I ? never ! You have certainly quite enough 
great things in your soul to be forgiven for some little caprice 
of your mind.” 

“Well, I like your answer ; and I like your judgment upon 
my Odyssey with the professor. It seems to me a higher view 
than could be taken by any person of my acquaintance. It is 
strange, master Pierre, that, having never seen what is called the 
world, you understand it better than the people who compose it. 
Founding yourself upon pure logic and absolute wisdom, you 
have unmasked a great error by which most men and women of 
these times allow themselves to be deceived.” 

“ May I ask you what one ? for it appears I have hit upon it 
by chance.” 

“ Well, this is it : Romances are all the fashion. The women 
of the world read them, and then they put them in practice the 
most they can, and there is nothing at all romantic in that. 
There is not one true affection in the thousand adventures which 
are attributed to the most exalted love. Thus we see elopements, 
duels, marriages opposed by parents and contracted to the great 
scandal of public opinion ; we even see suicides, and in all these 
there is no more passion than I had for my brother’s tutor. 
Vanity takes every form ; people are ruined, marry or kill them- 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


303 


selves to make the world talk of them. Believe me, real passions 
are those which are shut up ; the true romances are those of 
which the public are ignorant ; the true sorrows are those which 
are borne in silence, and for which we neither wish to be pitied 
nor consoled. ” 

“ Then there is nothing true in the history of the preceptor V 9 
said Pierre, with a naive anxiety which made mademoiselle de 
Villepreux smile. 

“ If it had happened as is related,” returned she, “ I assure 
you it would not have been related. For if I had an inclination 
for that young man, one of two things would have happened : 
either he would have been worthy of me, and my grandfather 
would not have opposed my choice, or I should have been de- 
ceived, and my grandfather would have opened my eyes for me. 
In the latter case I should have had, I think, strength enough to 
show neither false pride nor ridiculous despair, and no one would 
have had the satisfaction of seeing my cheek become pale. But, as 
there is always something real at the bottom of human inventions, 
I must tell you what there is true in this romance. My brother 
had, in fact, a tutor in Latin and Greek who was not very strong, 
they say, in his Greek or in his Latin, but who was quite enough 
so, since my brother was resolved not to learn either the one or 
the other. I was fourteen years old at most, and from time to 
time, out of pity to the poor professor who was losing his time 
with us, I took the lesson instead of Raoul ; at the end of a year 
I knew rather more than my master, which was not saying much. 

“ One fine day, I remarked that, even while eating with a very 
good appetite, he uttered deep sighs every time I offered him any 
dish. I asked him if he was suffering ; he replied that he suf- 
fered horribly, and I began to question him about his health, 
without imagining that he had just made me a declaration. The 
next day I found in my grammar a singular billet, all marked 
with points of exclamation ; I carried it to my grandfather, who 
laughed a great deal at it, and advised me not to let it be guess- 
ed I had received it. He had quite a long interview with the 
professor, and the day after the latter had disappeared. I know not 
what woman of the world, or what chambermaid invented a domes- 
tic scandal, the brutal and humiliating dismissal of the professor 


304 


THE COMPANION 


and my despair. The fact is, that my grandfather had intrusted 
to the young man a trifling political mission in Spain, in which he 
acquitted himself as well as another, and on his return he was 
received at the chateau with as much good will as if nothing had 
happened which should banish him from it. Nothing was ever 
said between us of the billet, and he did not write another. He 
even seems to have entirely forgotten it ; for I have heard him 
laugh quite frequently at people who are presumptuous enough 
to take any risk with women. In other matters he is a good 
youth, whom I esteem greatly, though his peculiarities sometimes 
make me smile, and I believe that is also your feeling respecting 
him.” 

“ Do I know him ? ” said Pierre, stupefied. 

Yseult with an arch manner passed her fingers over her cheeks, 
as if to draw upon them the shape of Achille Lefort’s great 
black whiskers. She did not designate him otherwise, and she 
afterwards placed her finger on her lips with a smile full of sig- 
nificance and good humor. This moment of freedom and of 
gaiety showed her to Pierre under an aspect of beauty which 
he did not know in her, and the delicate confidence she testified 
in him penetrated to his heart. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


3C5 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

We have arrived, in the course of our history, at that decisive 
moment in which the secret societies of the bourgeoisie under 
the restoration gave way. If the reader has paid attention to 
the sketch we have traced of the count de Villepreux, he must 
suspect to which of the four parties of carbonarism this old poli- 
tician was attached ; and he can at the same time thereby ex- 
plain to himself, l?bw a person so crafty, so sceptical, so frivolous, 
and so pusillanimous, had dared to leave the vulgar path of offi- 
cial politics to adventure in conspiracies. 

Certainly, the count had too strong a feeling for the historical 
tradition of France, whether ancient regime, or revolution, to 
think of a foreign prince ; and, since we must call this pretender 
by his name, of a prince of Orange. M. de Villepreux left this 
idol to other conspirators. There are men of state at this day, 
ministers, peers, or deputies, who, then fixed by exile in Belgium, 
had thought of reuniting Belgium to France by giving the con- 
stitutional sceptre to a Belgic prince ; they also thought for a 
moment that they could overthrow the restoration by the assist- 
ance of the North. History will perhaps one day bring to light 
the learned memorials which they addressed to the emperor of 
Russia in favor of their candidate. That Dutch candidate had 
not the suffrage of the count, in spite of the infinite efforts made 
to seduce him by a certain eclectic professor, who, going on free- 
booting excursions into Germany during his vacations, thought 
also that he had found in Holland the future monarch of France. 

The count would more willingly have been a partizan of Na- 
poleon IT. than of the prince of Orange. A prefect under the em- 
pire, an imperial restoration might have been profitable to him. 
But he had too much sense not to understand that the empire 
without the emperor, without the great man, was a chimera. 

In fine, though he liked utopias, and was, in theory, the advo- 


306 


THE COMPANION 


cate of the most rational ideas, of the most philosophical and 
most radical principles, he had too little enthusiasm to wish, with 
La Fayette, to ascend a scaffold, or to secure a republic, of which 
he did not clearly see the future destiny. This fraction of car- 
bonarism was managed and caressed by him ; but, in reality, he 
looked upon it only as a useful instrument, a bird-call to decoy 
the bold ones, an ally to excite the ardor of the thoughtless, and 
to get the chesnuts out of the fire. Achille Lefort sincerely 
thought the count de Villepreux a Lafayitist ; but the count de 
Villepreux knew very well, at the bottom of his soul, that he was 
an OrUanist. 

He was like M. de Talleyrand, his friend and his protector. 
Like M. de Talleyrand, he sought, not for a man, but for a fact ; 
that is, for a man who was a fact. Dear reader, this is the 
famous banner, parce que Bourbon , which you saw displayed af- 
terwards, and which perhaps astonished you then and appeared 
new. Know that the politicians with sharp noses had long been 
on that scent. The count de Villepreux had been naturally put 
upon the track, in consequence of the relations of his family with 
one of the active parties of the revolution ; relations which I 
have already informed you of. He had understood, at half a 
word, that M. de Talleyrand’s man was not to act himself, but 
to play dead. Only, believing the occasion more favorable than 
it was, and the issue more near, he had ventured, on his individ- 
ual account, encouraged moreover by the example of those who, 
in good faith, and with more disinterestedness than he himself 
had,* directed this intrigue. It was thus he found himself em- 
barked in what he now called, when he spoke in a loyv voice to 
himseltj cette maudite galere. 

“ The Orleans party,” says a historian of carbonarism, “ is 
that which did most harm to the association, especially towards 
the last. At the beginning it is not impossible that Louis Philippe 
might have conceived some hopes from those vast preparations 
for insurrection ; but it must soon have become evident to that 
prince that his cousins had still too many resources at their com- 
mand to be so easily forced, and that carbonarism could have no 

* We refer particularly to Manuel, who is supposed to have led the Or- 
leanist party in carbonarism. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


307 


other effect upon them but to make them anxious and drive them 
to reaction. He therefore allowed others to conspire for him, 
but decided to remain in the shade, judging that the time for 
his appearance had not arrived. Skilful politicians are not those 
who seek to make circumstances, but those who seek to prepare 
themselves for circumstances. At last the war in Spain came to 
strike the last blow at associations. The revolution, repressed 
for the time in Spain by the most vigorous and most politic act 
which the Bourbons had yet accomplished, fell in France at the 
same moment. Conquered with arms in its hands, there where it 
had succeeded in organizing itself openly, it could no longer re- 
tain a hope of triumphing where it possessed only the resources 
of secret meetings and of conspiracies. The moral effect of a 
victory completed what discord had begun, and what criminal 
suits and scaffolds would never have produced. ” 

On the 3d of November of that same year, 1823, that is to say, 
about two months after the adventure of the Corinthian and the 
marchioness, the count de Villepreux’s birth-day was celebrated. 
Several persons of the neighborhood were invited to dine. Many 
others came to pay homage to the patriarch of the liberal party 
of Loir-et-Cher. The count was not greatly flattered by these 
domestic ovations. His resolutions were so much affected by the 
state of politics that, on the morning of his fete, his grand-son 
Raoul having come to embrace him, he had quite a long conver- 
sation with him, at the end of which, after having chided him in 
a paternal manner upon several points, he gave him to under- 
stand that he would no longer throw any obstacles in the way of 
his military ardor, and that, if the war was prolonged in Spain, 
he would permit him to ask for service in the French army. 
Raoul was so much enchanted by this half-promise, that he 
mounted his horse and hurried to announce it to his young 
friends of the neighboring chateaus, who were assembled at a 
hunting rendezvous about two leagues from Villepreux. There 
was great joy and great exclamation on their part. They drank 
to the health of the old count, declaring that they would forgive 
him the past, and that they would go and thank him for having 
gratified Raoul’s wishes, although their families no longer visit- 
ed. Towards evening Raoul prepared to return to his grand- 


308 


THE COMPANION 


father’s dinner, when it entered into the heads of those young 
madcaps to invite themselves to that dinner, some with the im- 
pulse given to them by the champagne, others with the malicious 
thought of compromising the old count with his liberal guests by 
this proceeding. Raoul imagined that it was an excellent me- 
thod of drawing his grandfather along more speedily, and the 
young ultra-royalist phalanx reached the chateau at the moment 
dinner was served. 

The apparition of these children of noble families at the liberal 
banquet of the count de Villepreux, produced a singular com- 
motion. The guests stared at each other in a strange manner. 
Some of them were indignant, and wished to retire without 
breaking their fast ; certain others, who were patronized by the 
relatives of the young gentlemen, did not dare to show them- 
selves too cold towards them, and were very uncomfortable. 
The count rose above the position with a diplomatic ease before 
which the thoughtless impertinence of our beardless ultras was 
compelled to strike its flag. But the situation became still more 
complicated, when, at the end of the first course, he saw Achille 
Lefort arrive at the head of a Macedonian phalanx of very sa- 
vage little republicans whom he had recruited on his journey, 
and whom he brought there to put into communication with his 
other adepts, wishing to bestow the carbonic baptism upon them 
all under the shadow of the old count’s fete. He presented 
them to the latter with his customary assurance, giving him to 
understand, by means of the expressions with double meaning 
of carbonarism, that they were cousins, and that there was no 
escape. The count still played his part gracefully ; and while 
the first hunger kept political hatred slumbering at the bottom of 
their stomachs, he applied himself, without appearing to do so, to 
seek a method of getting rid both of Raoul’s knights and Achille’s 
conspirators. When he had found it he felt tranquil ; but as his 
project could not be put in execution until after dinner, and, as 
before then very earnest discussions might be opened at the 
table, and compel him to take one side or the other, he thought 
of having flourishes played under the windows of the dining hall 
at the appearance of each course. A word in the ear of his old 
roue of a valet de chambre was enough to produce, five minutes 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


309 


after, a horrible uproar of hunting horns, to which all the dogs 
of the chateau and village replied by plaintive howlings, and 
which cut short the speech of the most excited. At first the 
company was rather mortified by this cruel serenade, and Achille 
Lefort, who was in a vein of eloquence, declared to his neigh- 
bors that it was odious and insupportable. But Raoul, who cor- 
dially detested his ex-tutor since he had assumed grand airs with 
him, was delighted to see that he could not edge in a word, and 
encouraged the horn-blowers by sending wine to them. The 
horns having lost their effect, for the lungs of liberalism at last 
became accustomed to and struggled with the flourishes, it was 
found that Raoul’s horse had got unfastened and was fighting in 
the stable with the horses of his young friends. All rose and 
ran to separate the combatants, which was a long and difficult 
enterprise ; Wolf, notified by the valet-de-chambre, had wonder- 
fully seconded his master’s intentions. When they returned the 
dessert was on the table : this was the most dangerous moment. 
But the wine circulated abundantly, and the provincials, who 
like to drink, forgot their resentments, and allowed Achille and 
his Romans to occupy the arena of discussion. Fortunately the 
count had a powerful auxiliary in the person of Josephine Clicot. 
The marchioness had that day made a ravishing toilette, and her 
beauty was such as to turn the heads of all parties. The count 
placed her in relief by requesting her to sing some songs of the 
province, according to the old country usage, and in the manner 
of the paslourelles of the Lande. Josephine, brought up in the 
fields, having a pretty voice and a special talent for mimicry, 
sang those simple ballads in a very piquant manner and with a 
great deal of effect. She made them beg a long while, but at 
last she yielded. From that moment nothing else was thought 
of but the seductive marchioness. The young royalists, who had 
been intentionally placed around her, disputed among themselves 
for her replies, her glances, her smiles, and even for the fruits 
and bon-bons which her hand had touched. When they passed 
into the saloon, they there found a violin. Raoul knew how to 
play contredances. The count desired his daughter to place 
herself at the piano, and in a moment the ball was organized. 
They had gone to get, in order to increase the number (for there 


310 


THE COMPANION 


were but few women), the daughter of the adjunct, and those of 
the farmers who had quite fine toilettes for village ladies. Dur- 
ing this time, Achille, indignant at the count’s frivolity, had dis- 
appeared with his men, and had sent for Pierre Huguenin. 

In the morning, Pierre had received, by an express, a billet 
from the travelling clerk, in which, while announcing his arrival, 
he requested him to give notice to and assemble the members of 
his future vente, and indicated the rendezvous for that evening, 
during the amusements of the fete, in the workshop of the cha- 
teau. Pierre had made his preparations with a certain discour- 
agement. The nearer he saw approach the moment of binding 
himself by serious engagements to a work which had at first ap- 
peared to him vain and frivolous, the more he felt his repugnances 
revive. He was even the victim of a kind of remorse, which 
the simple illusions maintained in his mind by mademoiselle de 
Villepreux could no longer smother. At last the hour had come, 
and Pierre promised himself that he would refuse his adhesion 
if the form of the oath and the exposition of the programme im- 
plicated the least treachery to his principles and his feelings. 

But it was written that he should escape this danger. At the 
moment when Achille, accompanied by his proselytes, marched 
in the darkness of the night towards the workshop which was to 
serve him as a temple, the count de Villepreux presented him- 
self, and, pretending to be ignorant of his projects, told him that 
a writ of arrest had been issued against him, that the gendarmes 
were looking for him, and that he had not a moment to lose if he 
wished to escape pursuit. His plans had been discovered : the 
prefect had written to the king’s attorney ; they were resolved 
to punish all acts of propagandism. Happily an employe at the 
prefecture, to whom the count had formerly rendered some ser- 
vices, had had the generosity to give him warning, in order that, 
if he himself ran any chance of being compromised, he could 
secrete himself. He certainly would have to undergo a domi- 
ciliary visit that night. In fine the interest of the cause required 
that the assembly should disperse, and that Achille should leave 
the country that very moment. A good horse and a faithful do- 
mestic were all ready, the one to carry him, the other to guide 
him across the landes as far as the border of the department. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


311 


All this story was so well related, and the old count played his 
comedy so well, that the terrified republicans dispersed on the 
instant like a handful of dried leaves swept away by the wind. 
Achille, who only asked for emotions, had that of believing him- 
self at last persecuted ; and this nocturnal flight, these dangers 
which did not exist, this mystery which he could have wished to 
confide to all the world, occupied him and gave him a childish 
joy. He ran towards the workshop to inform Pierre of his flight 
and to bid him farewell. 

Pierre was waiting for him, and was not alone. Yseult, who 
was in the confidence, and whom her father had authorized to 
second the establishment of la Jean-Jacques Rousseau (even 
while he himself labored underhandedly to secure its failure), 
had secretly escaped from the saloon in order to assist the arti- 
san in his preparations. She had opened her cabinet of the 
turret, in order that he might take from there tables, chairs, and 
torches ; and she was pointing out to him the material arrange- 
ment of the ceremony, when Achille came to give the appointed 
signal at the shutter of the workshop. He rapidly confided to 
them his tragical situation, swore to them that he would not 
abandon the cause, that he would be able by himself alone, to 
resuscitate carbonarism throughout the whole of France under 
another form, and that they should soon see him again at Ville- 
preux, in spite of tyrants and sub-prefects. Then he embraced 
Pierre, and exhorted him so warmly to remain faithful to libe- 
ralism, that Pierre was edified by his perseverance and the little 
fear he testified. The fact was that Achille did not know fear, 
self-love and generosity always directing him to the advanced 
posts of mad enterprises. Yseult gave him a shake of the hand, 
and conducted him with Pierre, by a small covered way, as far 
as the grating of the park, where his guide and the horses were 
waiting for him. Then they returned to re-arrange the workshop, 
and to remove every trace of the shipwreck of la Jean-Jacques 
Rousseau. 

On carrying the furniture back to the study in the turret, 
Pierre could not avoid feeling a painful emotion, which Yseult 
perceived and shared. 

“ This apartment recalls a painful recollection to you, as well 


312 


THE COMPANION 


as to me,” said she to him with candor. “ I would wish to efface 
it. Do you not remember a certain engraving which you ac- 
cepted and afterwards despised. It is still there ; and so long 
as it remains I shall think that we are not entirely reconciled.” 

“ Give it to me very quickly,” replied Pierre. “I have long 
reproached myself for not daring to claim it again.” 

“ Here it is,” said Yseult ; “ and at the same time here is a 
child’s toy which you were to have been compelled to accept 
this evening from another hand than mine, and which you will 
receive from me as a memorial of friendship and of political 
union.” 

“ What is this, then ?” said Pierre, examining a superb poign- 
ard, admirably engraved, which she presented to him ; “ of what 
use can it be to me ? It is not a joiner’s tool, I presume.” 

“ It is a weapon of civil war,” replied she ; “ and it is the 
pledge which is conferred on the carbonaro initiate.” 

“ I have indeed been told that they swore on this ominous 
symbol. I did not believe it.” 

“ Royalism has made emphatic phrases thereupon ; but carbo- 
narism has clearly proved that the poignard was in its hands only 
a sign of inoffensive rallying. Its introduction into our myste- 
ries is respectable, inasmuch as it comes to us from Italian car- 
bonarism, which counts more serious battles and more numerous 
martyrs than our own. It is the symbol of our fraternity with 
those victims, of whom each of us ought every day to make a 
religious commemoration in his heart, as the catholics do of their 
saints in their prayers ; and since we can no longer weep for 
them except in secret, it is perhaps good to have constantly be- 
fore our eyes this emblem, which reminds us of their violent 
death and their sublime fanaticism.” 

“ Do you know,” said Pierre, turning the poignard in his hand 
and examining it with a kind of sadness, “ that there is a super- 
stition among us respecting such things ? The gift of an instru- 
ment with a sharp blade cuts friendship , according to some, and 
brings misfortune, according to others, to him who has received 
or to him who has given it.” 

“ I have no faith in that, though it is a poetical idea.” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


313 


“ Nor I either, and yet — But what cipher is this engraved 
in open-work on the blade V ’ 

“ It is yours now. Formerly it was that of one of my ances- 
tors to whom this poignard belonged. His name was Pierre de 
Villepreux ; is it not thus that you call yourself also when you 
unite your baptismal name to your name as a companion ?” 

“ It is true,” said Pierre smiling ; “ but with this difference, 
that your ancestors gave their name to the village, while the vil- 
lage has yielded it to me.” 

“ Your ancestors were serfs and mine were soldiers ; that is 
to say, you descend from the oppressed, and I from the oppres- 
sors. I greatly envy your nobility, master Pierre.” 

“ This poignard is too handsome for me,” said he, replacing 
it on the table ; “ I should be asked, in jest, where I had stolen it ; 
and since, really, I am of the people, I wear the yoke of super- 
stition. I cannot help having a gloomy feeling before that sharp 
weapon. Decidedly, I do not wish it. Give me something 
else.” 

“ Choose,” said Yseult, opening all her cases to him. 

“ My choice will be quickly made,” said Pierre. “ There 
is, in a volume of your Bossuet, a little cross of cut paper, with 
Greek ornaments of the Lower empire, which are in fine taste.” 

“ Eh ! mon Dieu, are you a magician then ? How do you 
know that ? I do not know it myself. It is two years since I 
have opened my Bossuet.” 

Pierre took down the volume, opened it, and showed her the 
little cross, which he had greatly desired formerly, and which 
he had respected. 

“ How do you know it was I that made it ?” said she. 

“ Your cipher is cut in gothic letters on one of the ornaments.” 

“ That is the truth. Well, take it, then. But what will you 
do with it ?” 

“ I will hide it, and I shall look at it in secret.” 

“ Is that all ?” 

“ That is quite enough.” 

“ You attach to it some philosophical idea ; you prefer this 
emblem of mercy to the emblem of vengeance which I had in- 
tended for you.” 


15 


314 


THE COMPANION 


“ That is possible : but I prefer, above all, this piece of paper 
cut by you under the influence of a calm and religious idea, to 
that rich poignard which has perhaps served as an instrument 
of hatred.” 

“ Now, will you tell me, master Pierre, how you are so well 
acquainted with my cabinet and my books, and even with the 
little marks which are in them ? Unless you have the gift of 
second sight, everything leads me to believe that you have read 
here.” 

“ I have read all that is here,” replied Pierre ; and he made 
his confession, without omitting the extreme care he had taken 
not to injure anything in the cabinet, and not even to tarnish the 
margins of the books. These scruples made Yseult smile. She 
put several questions to him respecting the effect which those 
readings had produced upon him, asked him in what order he 
had made them, and what impressions he had received from 
them. On hearing his replies, she explained to herself many 
things which she had not before understood in him, and was 
struck by the correctness of judgment with which, without other 
light than that of a rigid conscience, and a heart full of charity, 
he refuted the error and confounded the pride of the wise men 
of this world, admiring in the poets and the philosophers only 
that which is truly great and eternally beautiful, believing in 
history only that which is in accordance with divine logic and 
human dignity, elevating himself, in fine, by his innate great- 
ness, above all the greatnesses determined by the judgment of 
men. She was completely subjugated, affected, seized with 
respect, filled with faith, and at the same time, with a kind of 
shame, as is the case when we discover that we have ingenuously 
protected a being superior to all protection. Seated upon the 
edge of a table, her eyes cast down, her soul penetrated with 
that feeling which Christians have defined compunction, she kept 
silence for a long while after he had spoken. 

“ I have wearied you, annoyed you, perhaps,” said Pierre, 
intimidated by this apparent coldness ; “ you have allowed me 
to talk, and I have forgotten myself — I must seem to you more 
presumptuous in my ideas than that good M. Lefort — ” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


315 


“ Pierre,” replied Yseult, “ I have been asking myself, for the 
last fifteen minutes, if I am worthy of your friendship. 

“ Are you laughing at me ?” said Pierre, with simplicity. 
“ No, that cannot be the idea which engrosses you, it is impos- 
sible.” 

Yseult rose. She was paler than she had ever been ; her 
eyes shone with a mystic fire. The reflection of the lamp with 
a green shade, which lighted the turret, spread over her face a 
vague and floating tone which gave her the appearance of a 
spectre. She seemed to move and to speak in a fever, and yet 
her attitude was calm and her voice firm. Pierre remembered 
the sybil he had seen in his dream, and he felt a kind of terror. 

“ The idea which engrosses me ?” said she to him, looking at 
him with a fixedness which announced an unshakable will ; “ if 
I were to tell it to you now, you would not believe it. But I 
will tell 3'ou some day, and then you will believe it. In the 
meanwhile, pray to God for me ; for there is something great in 
my destiny, and I am only a poor girl to accomplish it.” 

She hastened to arrange her cabinet with great precision, 
though she had the appearance of being rapt by thought in 
another world. Then she went out, and crossed the workshop 
without saying a word to Pierre, who followed her carrying her 
candlestick. When she was upon the threshold of the door 
which opened upon the park, she repeated to him again, “ Pray 
for me ;” and, taking her candle, she extinguished it, and disap- 
peared before him like a phantom which is dissipated. What 
had she intended to say ? Pierre did not dare to seek for the mean- 
ing of her words. “ Yes,” said he to himself, “ now she is as 
in my dream, speaking by enigmas, and showing me in the 
future something which I do not understand.” He felt himself 
seized with dizziness, and pressed his forehead in his hands, as 
if he feared it would burst. 

Unable to resist the agitation which was in him, attracted as 
by a loadstone, he glided along in the footsteps of mademoiselle 
de Villepreux, in order still longer to see her float before him 
like a pale spectre, or at least to breathe the air through which 
she passed. He thus reached as far as the open lawn which 
extended before the front of the chateau ; and stopping among 


316 


THE COMPANION 


the last clumps of trees, he saw her reenter the saloon. The 
weather being magnificent, and the dance very animated, the 
windows had been thrown open, and, from his position, Pierre 
could see the waltz pass and the marchioness whirl, surrounded 
by admirers, among whom were young persons of good family, 
whose gallant manners were mingled with that slight dose of im- 
pertinence which pleases silly women. Josephine was intoxicated 
with her success; it was a long while since she had an oppor- 
tunity of being a belle and of seeing herself thus admired. She 
was like a moth which turns and flutters around the light. Yseult, 
in order to relieve the persons who had played by turns on the 
violin, resumed her seat at the piano. Pierre placed himself so 
that he could see her. Her eyes swam in a kind of fluid, and 
other images than those of reality seemed to be delineated before 
her. She played with a great deal of nerve and action, but her 
hands ran over the keys without her being conscious of it. 

Raoul came out to take the air with one of his friends. Pierre 
heard him say : “ Only look at my sister ; would not one say 
she was an automaton ?” 

“ Does she never smile more than that ?” returned his com- 
panion. 

“ Not much more. She is a girl of sense, but a head of iron.” 

“ Do you know that she frightens me with her fixed eyes. She 
has the air of a marble statue which should undertake to play 
sarabands.” 

“ I think she has the air of the Goddess of Reason,” replied 
Raoul in a mocking tone, “ and that she plays contredances on 
the movement of the Marseillaise.” 

These young men passed on, and almost immediately Pierre 
saw some one who was wandering in silence around the 
lawn, and whose irregular walk betrayed his inward agitation. 
When this man came near him, he recognised the Corinthian, 
and, issuing gently from his retreat, he seized him by the arm. 
“ What are you doing here ?” said he to him, for he well under- 
stood his secret pain ; “ do you not know that this is not your 
place, and that, if you wish to see, you must not be seen ? Come, 
let us go, Amaury, you are suffering, and you can do nothing 
here to change your lot.” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


317 


“Well !” said the Corinthian, “let me be filled with my suffer- 
ing. Let me dry up my heart by the strength of my hatred and 
my contempt.” 

“By what right would you despise her whom you have adored? 
was Josephine less coquettish, less frivolous, less easy to be led 
away, the day when you began to love her ?” 

“ She did not belong to me then ! But now that she is mine, 
she must be mine alone, or she must no longer be anything to me. 
My God ! how impatiently do I await the hour to tell her so ! — 
But this ball will never finish ! She will dance all night, and 
with all those men. What a horrible abandonment of herself! 
That waltz is the most immodest thing in the world that I know 
of among those people. Only see, Pierre, — look at her ! Her 
arms are bare, her shoulders are bare, her bosom is almost bare ! 
Her dress is so short that half her legs can be seen, and so trans- 
parent that all her form can be distinguished. A woman of the 
people would blush to show herself thus in public ; she would 
fear to be mistaken for a prostitute ! And now, there she passes, 
all palpitating, from the arms of one man into the arms of an- 
other man, who presses her, who raises her, who inhales her 
breath, who clasps again her already dishonored waist, and who 
drinks in voluptuousness from her eyes. No ! I can’t look at 
this any longer. Let us go, Pierre — or rather, let us burst into 
that ball-room, break those chandeliers, overturn all the furniture, 
put to flight all those dandies, and their women will see if they 
can defend them against the insults of the populace.” 

Pierre saw that the exasperation of his friend could no longer 
be restrained. He drew him away from the chateau, and suc- 
ceeded in persuading him to return home. There they found a 
letter, post-marked from Blois, the sight of which made the Co- 
rinthian shudder. It was addressed to Pierre, who immediately 
communicated the contents to him. 

“ My dear pays ” (wrote the dignitary), “ I announce to you 
that the society of the devoir of liberty leaves this residence, 
and that Blois ceases to be one of the cities of our devoir. The 
persecutions which we have had to suffer from the other societies 
have so disgusted us, that we prefer the abandonment of our rights 
to an interminable war. This resolution having been taken by 


318 


THE COMPANION 


common agreement, we are on the eve of dispersion.” Here the 
dignitary entered into details relative to the society, and related 
the various motives for their resolution. Then he referred to his 
own individual affairs, and informed his ex-colleague that the 
Savinienne, compelled to give up keeping her inn, which was 
frequented only by the gavots, whose mother she was, had deter- 
mined to leave her business, and to sell her house. “ I should 
have thought, my dear pays,” said he, “ that I would have been 
consulted upon this matter. As a friend of the Hate Savinien, 
and as one devoted to the interests of his widow more than to my 
own, I flattered myself that I could be her adviser and guide 
under such circumstances. Well, she has acted otherwise. She 
has offered her establishment for sale under my name, declaring 
before the law that it was not the property of her children, but 
mine, because I had furnished the funds, and had not been re- 
imbursed. And when I reproached her for this, she replied to 
me that it was her duty to act thus, and that she was not willing 
to deceive me any longer, her intention being not to marry again. 
Villepreux, she has told me that you knew her reasons, and that 
she had confided to you all that passed between her husband and 
myself at the time of his death. I do not ask you any questions, 
my dear pays ; I know quite enough. When one has the mis- 
fortune not to be loved, he ought to know how to suffer, and not 
descend to complaints. If I write to you, it is for another reason. 
I see clearly that the mother intends leaving Blois, and I think 
she means to establish herself near you. But I believe she is 
without resources, though she assures me she has made some 
savings. She makes it a point of honor not to remain indebted 
to a man whom she refuses to take as a husband. But this is a 
mistaken pride, and one which she has no right to testify towards 
me. I have done nothing to be thus despised and treated like a 
creditor. I shall know how to be resigned under this affront ; 
apparently I have committed some fault, for which God is pleased 
to punish me by sending me a great deal of sorrow. But I will 
never submit to see this woman, whom her husband confided to 
my care, fall into poverty with her children. I know, pays Vil- 
lepreux, that you are not rich, otherwise I should feel no anxiety. 
I know also that a person upon whom she doubtless depends has 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


319 


nothing but his labor and his talents, and that these are not enough 
to maintain a family. 1 therefore earnestly beseech you to inform 
yourself of the situation of the mother, and to render her all the 
services she may require. You can dispose of all I have, pro- 
vided she does not know it ; for the idea of making her suffer, 
and humiliating her by my attachment, makes me suffer, and 
humiliates me also. Adieu, my dear pays. You must not feel 
displeased at my speaking to you succinctly of all these things, 
and you must understand that it is not an easy matter for me. 
With time, I shall be more reasonable, if it please God. I have 
now only to embrace you. — Your friend, and sincere pays, ro- 
MANET LE BON-SOUTIEN, D. .* G. : T. : of Blois.” 

The simplicity of this relation, united to the idea which Pierre 
formed, with reason, of Bon-soutien’s deep affection, impressed 
him so much, that he felt his tears flow. 

“ Amaury ! Amaury !” cried he, “ how small we are, both of 
us, before such a strength of mind and a generosity of such little 
display ! With time I shall he more reasonable , if it please God ! 
He thinks he wants courage at the moment when he shows a 
sublime courage ! Men of little faith that we are, we could not 
suffer with such heroism. We should expend ourselves in lamen- 
tations, in murmurs ; we should feel anger, hatred, have ideas of 
vengeance — ” 

“ Be silent, Pierre, I understand you without you saying more,” 
cried the Corinthian, raising his head which he had kept hidden in 
his hands during the reading of the letter. “ It is for me that you 
say all this ; for you, you are as virtuous as Romanet, and you 
would be as calm as he in misfortune. But if it be to reattach 
me to the marchioness that you praise the forgiveness of injuries, 
you will not succeed in any way ; the news which this letter con- 
tains overturns all my projects and renews all my former ideas. 
What could have been passing in the mind of the Savinienne ? 
What does her present conduct signify ? What does she mean 
to do ? Upon what does she depend ? I wish to know all this. 
You must have received a letter from her, and you have not 
shown it to me. I wish to see it.” 

“ You will not see it,” replied Pierre. “ No, no ! the lover of 
the marchioness des Frenays will not read the noble complaints 


320 


THE COMPANION 


\ 

of the Savinienne. Let it be enough for you to know the effect 
of your silence and of mine ; for I have not written to her either : 
I could not deceive her, and I did not wish to enlighten her. It 
always seemed to me that all was not lost, and I deferred from day 
today, hoping that you would return to her.” 

“In fine, what effect did your silence produce ? Tell me.” 

“ She has guessed the truth ; and, saying to herself that she 
was no longer loved, that perhaps she had never been loved, seeing 
herself forsaken, abandoned to poverty, she wished, at least to 
give peace to her conscience, and to accept nothing more from 
the dignitary. I will quote to you a single passage from her 
letter : 

“ ‘ I have suffered long enough with Savinien from having a 
desire in my heart. I do not wish to suffer a life-long regret, 
with Romanet; this would be quite as culpable. I am not with- 
out remorse for the past : I do not wish to feel it in the future. I 
prefer every other kind of unhappiness to this one.’ ” 

“ Poor holy woman !” said the Corinthian, in a sombre voice, 
and rising. “ Finish ; what did she wish to do after having 
broken with Bon-soutien ?” 

“ Resume her former business as a laundress, and, if you were 
not here, come and attempt an establishment. She imagined, on 
the one hand, that she could find work in this country ; and, on 
the other, that you could not have remained with me, since you 
had forgotten her without any one’s thinking to give her notice.” 

“ Her idea is a good one,” replied the Corinthian with an 
absent air; “ there is no laundress here : she will have the cus- 
tom of the chateau — she will iron the transparent neckerchiefs 
of the marchioness,” added he with a deep bitterness. “ Pierre, 
give me a pen and paper, quick.” 

“ What do you mean to do ?” 

“ Do you ask me ? — write to the Savinienne, tell her that we 
expect her, that one of us will go and meet her half-way, while 
the other will hire and prepare lodgings for her in the village. 
Is not that my duty ?” 

“ Without doubt, Amaury ; but spite is a poor pledge for the 
performance of duty. I should much prefer you would write 
that letter to-morrow, when your head is cooler.” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


321 


“ I wish to write at once.” 

“ Because you feel that you will not have strength enough to 
morrow.” 

“ I shall have ; I will write again to-morrow, and the day after 
too, if you wish ; I have more strength than you think.” 

“ Amaury, if you write, the Savinienne will come. She will 
believe in you, and I, I do not know if I shall have courage to 
doubt you enough to undeceive her. If she comes and she finds 
you at the feet of the marchioness, in what light must your con- 
duct be considered.” 

“As that of a dastard or a madman.” 

“ Take care that you do not become mad. Do not write yet.” 

The Corinthian wrote nevertheless ; he wrote in the night under 
the dominion of profound indignation and disgust towards the 
marchioness. As soon as the day appeared, he ran to carry his 
letter to the post, and it had gone before Pierre, overpowered by 
fatigue, awoke. 


15 * 


322 


THE COMPANION 


CHAPTER XXX. 

For several days the Corinthian did not agairusee the marchioness ; 
and, as she had no consciousness of having committed any wrong 
with regard to him, coquetry being in her a second nature, her 
surprise was extreme ; but her sorrow was not very deep at first. 
Her intoxication was further prolonged by a hunting party which 
Raoul’s friends proposed, and which they arranged for her. 
Yseult at first tried to dissuade her from it, not liking to see her 
enter into relations with persons whom she believed repugnant to 
her grandfather, and towards whom she did not feel drawn by 
any tie of ideas or of position. But the old count was not dis- 
pleased to see his family reconnected by some extremity with the 
nobility of the country, and he authorized his niece to amuse her- 
self by accepting the invitation which an elegant and proud countess 
of the neighborhood, sister to one of Josephine’s most ardent ad- 
mirers, came to make to her in person. This diplomatic visit 
had for its object, in the thought of the noble dame, the marriage 
of that brother, the viscount Amedee, with the rich Yseult de 
Villepreux. Yseult was somewhat astonished at this return 
towards her after the indignation which her well known republi- 
can ideas had excited in her neighbor. She replied to it quite 
coldly ; and yet, as Josephine besought her to accompany her, 
She did not openly refuse. Josephine did not ride on horseback : 
they were to come for her in a calash. Yseult was a very good 
amazon ; she guided her horse skilfully, and made him leap 
ditches and gates with that calmness from which she was never 
seen to depart. This talent of riding was the only one which 
drew to her a little consideration from her brother and the noble 
youths of the neighborhood. She delighted in this exercise ; and 
as it was very difficult for her not to have, under her grave 
exterior, a few of the tastes and attractions of childhood, she 
allowed herself to be conquered by degrees. It was some time 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


323 


since she had mounted on horseback ; she wished to exercise 
alone in the park. Pierre, who watched for her incessantly, found 
himself upon her path, as she cleft the air with the rapidity of an 
arrow. She stopped short before him, and asked him laughingly 
if he was not scandalized at seeing her give herself up to so aris- 
tocratic an amusement. Pierre smiled in his turn, but with so 
much effort, and his look betrayed so deep a sadness, that Yseult 
divined all that was passing within him. She wished to be sure 
of it : “ you know that there is to be a great hunting party to- 
morrow ?” said she to him. 

“ I have heard so,” replied Pierre. 

“ And do you know that they wish to carry me to it ?” 

“ I have not believed you would go.” 

In making this answer, Pierre apparently allowed the depths 
of his soul to be read ; for mademoiselle de Villepreux, after a 
moment’s silence, during which she looked at him attentively, 
said to him with an ineffable gentleness and profound emotion : 
“ I thank you, Pierre, for not having doubted me !” Then she 
resumed her impetuous course, made the circuit of the park two 
or three times, and returned to the front of the chateau, where her 
brother was waiting for her with the count and Josephine. Pierre 
was mending a little rustic bench at three paces distance. 

“ Here, take your horse,” said Yseult to Raoul, as she leaped 
lightly to the turf. “ I don’t like him the least in the world.” 

“ That did not seem to be the case just now, by any means,” 
said the count ; “ I thought you were on your way to the Great 
Desert.” 

“ Since you are going in, master Pierre,” said Yseult to the 
joiner, who was retiring, “ would you have the goodness to say 
to Julia, in passing, that she need not do anything more to my 
habit ? I shall not go to-morrow,” added she, turning to Jose- 
phine, but in a tone too clear for Pierre, as he withdrew, not to 
hear it. 

She kept her word, and her cousin’s prayers found her inexo- 
able. The count would have desired her to show herself less 
obstinate, and that she would not counteract his plans of reconci- 
liation with the neighboring nobility. But he hail testified before 


324 


THE COMPANION 


her so much repugnance and philosophical disdain for those peo- 
ple that it was quite impossible for him to retract clearly. 

Pierre swam in an ocean of happiness. He could not deceive 
himself as to the love which he inspired ; but that love was so 
constituted that he could not express his gratitude. Nothing 
authorized him to give form to his thoughts, and besides, he did 
not feel any need of this. Never was there a passion more abso- 
lute, more devoted, more enthusiastic, on both sides ; and yet 
never was there a love more restrained, "more mute, more timid. 
It was as if a tacit contract had passed between them. Any one 
who could have heard the three or four words which Pierre ex- 
changed in secret every day with Yseult, would have thought 
they were the result of an intimacy consecrated by indissoluble 
bonds and formal promises. No one would have been willing to 
believe that the word love had never been pronounced between 
them, and that the virgin purity of their senses had not been 
touched by the slightest breath. 

Josephine followed the hunt in the brilliant calash of the 
countess. But when the latter saw that, of her dream of alliance 
and fortune, there remained to her only Josephine Clicot upon 
her hands, and her brother who caracoled beside the door devour- 
ing the piquant provincial with his eyes, she felt that she was 
playing a singular part, and got vexed with everybody. The 
countess was dry and nervous: compelled to carry the mar- 
chioness to her chateau, to do the honors of it, and to present her 
to other illustrious ladies whom she had invited to flatter and 
caress the heiress of Villepreux, she so poorly concealed her 
ennui and her disdain that the poor Josephine felt herself dying 
with shame and fear. Still the homage she received from the 
men, for youth and beauty always find grace and protection from 
the bearded portion of mankind, restored some assurance to her ; 
and by degrees gathering about her by her gracefulness rich and 
poor, youth and age, she avenged herself without mercy for the 
contempt of their women. A little ball had been prepared for 
the evening on the supposition that Yseult, seated at the piano, 
would be its queen in a certain manner : the lady of the house 
wished to send away the violins and shorten the evening by de- 
claring herself ill. But the faction of the men carried the day. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


325 


The young brother rebelled, and his companions swore that the 
pretty women should not go. They made all the, coachmen 
drunk, they took the wheels from the carriages ; only the equi- 
pages of the dowagers were respected ; and even their old hus- 
bands had to be scolded a great deal before they could tear 
themselves from the contemplation of Josephine’s beautiful 
shoulders. 

She remained, therefore, in the saloon, with five or six young 
wives of the smaller country-gentlemen, who amused themselves 
on their own account, and did not think of humiliating her. But 
in proportion as the night advanced, the men, in passing from the 
contredance to the sideboard, became excited like persons who 
have passed all day in hunting, and assumed such rude manners 
that Josephine began to be frightened. There was around her a 
struggle between brutal desire and a remnant of propriety, of 
which the bounds were but poorly kept. Josephine was only fool- 
ish on the surface. She was like one of those provincial coquettes 
who, with a love of modesty and virtue, permit themselves to 
continue a system of encouragements which they consider with- 
out consequence and without danger. At first happy and proud 
of exciting desires, she felt her blushes mount to her brow when 
she had to defend herself against a commencement of familiar- 
ity ; it was then that she thought of retiring. But the countess, 
who had promised to carry her back, seeing the ball prolonged 
and Josephine pleased with it, had gone to bed, or had pretended 
to do so : at least she was shut up in her apartments. Raoul had 
allowed himself to become intoxicated, and while replying to his 
cousin that he was at her service, did nothing but sing and shout 
with laughter, without comprehending her situation. The other 
ladies departed one by one without offering to carry her home. 
The viscount Amedee had made them believe that his sister in- 
tended to rise at daybreak and accompany madame des Frenays 
in her carriage. Still the countess did not rise. The wearied 
domestics snored in the ante-chamber ; Raoul, completely drunk, 
had fallen upon a sofa. Josephine remained as if alone, with 
five or six young men more or less intoxicated, each of whom 
would have wished to drive away the others, and who persisted 
in making her waltz in spite of herself. Overpowered by fa- 


320 


THE COMPANION 


tigue, deeply wounded by the conduct of her hostess, frightened 
by the manners of her admirers, disgusted by their stupid bab- 
ble, Josephine seated herself dismayed in the midst of them. 
The cold of the morning made her shiver ; she asked for her 
shawl : she was answered by loathsome, half obscene praises of 
the beauty of her figure. The saloon was dusty, gloomy, fright- 
ful to look at in its disorder by the bluish light of the dawn. 
The poor woman was cruelly punished, and every word, every 
look which fell upon her made her expiate her triumph. It was 
then that a cry of distress rose from the bottom of her soul to- 
wards the Corinthian. But he was not there, he was weeping in 
the depths of the park of Villepreux. 

At last Josephine made an effort, feeling indeed that she had 
no right to be angry, after having in some manner led on all 
these men, but resolved to appear to them foolish and ridiculous 
in order to escape from their importunities. She rose, and de- 
clared that she would go on foot if a carriage was not brought 
for her. She spoke so drily, and repelled so well their imperti- 
nent beseechings, that she succeeded in starting, in a calash, with 
Raoul, who could hardly drag himself to it, and the viscount 
Amedee, whom she was absolutely compelled to accept as her 
cavalier, in order to get rid of the others. Hardly did the rolling 
of the carriage begin to be felt, than Raoul, awakened for an in- 
stant, fell again into a lethargic sleep. For two mortal hours 
Josephine was obliged to defend herself, by words and actions, 
against the most impertinent of viscounts. This ride, which re- 
called to her another carriage-ride, a poetical dawn, an ardent 
love and partaken emotions, pained her so much that, hiding her 
face in her veil, she burst into tears. The viscount became only 
the more enterprising. Josephine was weak and inconsistent. 
In spite of herself, a kind of instinctive respect for titled persons 
prevented her being as decided as she would have dared to be 
towards a citizen who had displeased her. She wished to defend 
herself, and she did it so awkwardly, that each of her naive an- 
swers was taken by the viscount as an encouragement. Fortu- 
nately Raoul felt cold, and woke in quite bad humor, and, not 
being able to go to sleep again, found the viscount insipid, and 
had no objection to telling him so. By degrees the feeling of the 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


327 


protection which he owed to his cousin, and which he had abjured 
in so dastardly a manner, returned to his memory : by degrees 
also, the viscount, seeing that the hour had passed, and that the 
opportunity was lost, restrained himself and became quiet. They 
were all three very stupid when they reached the chateau, and 
Josephine, broken by vexation and fatigue, went to shut herself 
up in her chamber and threw herself upon her bed, where she fell 
asleep without having had strength enough to undress. 

For many nights the Corinthian had not slept, and by day he 
worked without energy. He experienced rather the desire of 
stupefying himself, and of escaping from his own thoughts, than 
a real repentance of his wandering, and he awaited the Savi- 
nienne’s reply with more terror than impatience ; for he made 
useless efforts to reattach himself to that austere love, so different 
from that he had known with the marchioness. Pierre saw that 
he hoped for a refusal, and he himself desired that this might be 
the case. As he became confirmed in the opinion that his friend 
would never return completely to his first love, he promised him- 
self that, in case the Savinienne should have faith in the Corin- 
thian’s letter, he would undeceive her, either by writing to her, 
or by going to meet her in order to enlighten her and exhort her 
to have courage. 

The Corinthian was very culpable, but he loved Josephine pas- 
sionately. And how should he not have loved her ? His great- 
est crime towards her was not knowing how to make allowance 
for the coquetry of a badly educated young girl, and wishing to 
tear from his bosom, before the time, a passion of which the in- 
toxications were not yet exhausted. We carry into love a neces- 
sity of domination which renders us implacable towards the most 
trifling faults. Those of the marchioness were only the fatal 
result of her character and habits. It was necessary that she 
should expiate them as she had just done in order to feel their 
gravity. Uneasy at first at seeing the evenings pass without re- 
ceiving a visit from her lover, she had thought him ill ; and 
stealing, one morning, along the secret passage, she went to look 
through the cracks in the wainscotting. She had seen him at 
work, at that moment, with a kind of feverish energy and a 
forced gaiety which she had taken for a brutal indifference. 


328 


THE COMPANION 


Making then a return upon herself, comparing the homage of 
which she had been the object from the exquisites of the ball with 
this gross forgetfulness, she had been ashamed of her love, and, 
reanimated by the expectation of new triumphs, she had flattered 
herself she could abjure quickly, and efface even the remem- 
brance of her fault. But she had made bitter reflections in the 
carriage which brought her from the last ball, and the sleep 
which now overpowered her was troubled by painful dreams. 

The Corinthian had seen her depart the day before, carried 
away in the whirl of worldly vanity. He then said to himself that 
she was lost to him, and anger had given way to despair. Before 
that day he had flattered himself that she would not endure his 
desertion, and that she would soon recall him. Thinking entirely 
of vengeance, he had fortified himself with the idea of what she 
would suffer away from him. But when he saw her pass, forget- 
ful and radiant with pleasure, he wished to throw himself under 
the wheels of the carriage. “ Take care, stupid !” cried the 
viscount Amedee, hardly taking pains to restrain his horse ready 
to crush him. Amaury could have wished to rush upon the fop, 
to overthrow him, and tread him under foot ; but his proud courser 
had carried him away like the wind, the mechanic was covered 
with dust, and Josephine had seen nothing. 

The Corinthian returned to the park, tore his breast with his 
nails, plucked up by the roots the beautiful hair which Josephine 
had combed and perfumed so many times ; and, when he had 
breathed forth his rage, he began to weep. Rising before day- 
light, he ran to the workshop, violently tore out the nails with 
which he had fastened the panel in the wainscoting when he swore 
never again to open that passage, and rushing impetuously into 
it at the risk of betraying himself, he ran to Josephine’s chamber 
to see if she had returned. He found the chamber in good order, 
the bed as made the day before, and ornamented with a lace coun- 
terpane which, in his madness, he tore to pieces. Then he went 
back to the park and waited at the gate for the return of his faith- 
less mistress. At last he saw her arrive with the viscount, and 
as he did not see Raoul, who was buried in a corner of the carriage 
and wrapped up in his cloak, he thought of his first adventure 
with Josephine, and did not doubt that the viscount had triumphed 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


329 


over her weakness with as little opposition. When he returned 
to the chateau, an hour afterwards, he met Julia, the ex-turkey 
feeder, who was at least as coquettish as her mistress, and who 
always made her great black eyes sparkle for him. He found no 
difficulty in making her talk ; and when he learnt that the mar- 
chioness had shut herself up in her chamber, and refused with ill- 
humor the services of her maid to undress her, he asked if the 
viscount had not remained at the chateau. He had waited in vain 
in the park to see him pass on his way back, and still flattered 
himself that he had taken another road. “ Oh ! bah !” replied 
Julia, “ M. the viscount will not go quite so soon. He has asked 
for a chamber to take some rest in, for it appears they have 
danced all night : but l am very sure that they will dance again 
to-night, and that all those handsome gentlemen will come back 
here to dine. They are all in love with my mistress, and I verily 
believe the viscount is crazy about her.” 

Amaury quickly turned his back, and left Julia to finish her 
comments alone. He ran to the workshop, and, unable to enter 
the secret passage because father Huguenin, Pierre, and the other 
workmen were there, he began to work upon his sculpture. 
Father Huguenin was in quite a bad humor. He found that the 
job did not go on so well as at the beginning. Pierre was always 
quite as conscientious ; but he had lost more than a month on 
mademoiselle de Villepreux’s aviary, and now he was incessantly 
taken off. Ten times a day he was called away for all the little 
repairs which were to be made in the interior of the chateau ; as 
if it was the part of a master workman like him to mend legs of 
chairs, and to plane warped doors, and as if William and the Ber- 
richon were not good enough for such jobs ! The Corinthian, 
skilfully concealing bis relations with the marchioness, did indeed 
pass his days at the workshop ; but he had strange fits of absence, 
profound lassitude, and often yielded to an imperious need of sleep, 
from which they found it very difficult to awaken him. That 
day, when, instead of the joiner’s heavy plane, he took up the light 
chisel of the sculptor, father Huguenin made a grimace, and asked 
him several times if he should soon have done dressing his little 
men. “ I don’t see,” said he, “ what there is so useful and so 
necessary in that work, that the walls must be left bare in the 


330 


THE COMPANION 


meanwhile. And, as to the pleasure you can find in manufactur- 
ing those Nuremberg dolls, I can’t conceive that any better. For 
the last week especially, my poor Amaury, you have been making 
only dragons and serpents, without speaking of those you have 
made me swallow ! I believe the devil must have got' hold of 
you, for you make his portrait in every style ; and, if I were a 
woman, I should not like to look at those gentlemen : I should be 
afraid of having some like them.” 

“ The one I am making now,” replied the Corinthian, in a bitter 
tone, “ is a very pretty monster. It is Luxury, the president of 
the council of capital sins, the queen of the world — therefore I 
shall put a crown on her head : the patron of all women — there- 
fore I shall give her ear-rings and a fan.” 

Father Haguenin could not help laughing ; and then, as the 
toilette of dame Luxury did not finish, he resumed his ill-humor, 
scolded the Corinthian who pretended not to hear him, and at last 
spoke to him in a rude tone and with inflamed eyes. 

“ Let me alone, master,” said the Corinthian ; “ I am not in a 
condition to satisfy you to-day, and I feel no more patient than 
you do.” 

Father Huguenin, accustomed to be obeyed blindly, became 
still more angry, and wished to snatch his chisel from his hands. 
Pierre, who watched them with anxiety, saw a savage fury kindle 
in the eyes of the Corinthian, and his hand seek a hammer which 
he would perhaps have raised upon the head of the old man, had 
not Pierre rushed before him. 

“ Amaury ! Amaury !” cried he, “ what do you mean to do 
with that hammer ? Think you that my heart is not sufficiently 
broken by your suffering ?” 

Amaury saw the tears roll down his friend’s cheeks ; he rose 
and fled into the park. When the workmen had left the work- 
shop for luncheon, he precipitated himself into the secret passage 
with his hammer, which he had not let go. He expected to find 
the door of the alcove barricaded ; and promised himself that he 
would break it in. Perhaps even a more gloomy thought crossed 
his brain. It is certain that he expected to find the viscount with 
the marchioness. But, on pushing the spring, which he himself 
had put to the secret door, he met with no resistance. He had 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


331 


arranged this door so that it opened without any noise ; for, during 
his days of happiness, he had neglected nothing to insure their 
mystery. He therefore entered Josephine’s chamber without 
awakening her, and saw her lying upon her bed, half undressed, 
her hair in disorder, her arms still loaded with jewels, with her 
stained and torn ball-dress wrapped around her. At first she in- 
spired him with a kind of disgust in that sullied toilette which the 
bright light of day made still more accusing. He remembered 
having read something of Cleopatra’s orgies, and of the shameful 
loves of the enslaved Antony. He gazed at her a long while 
and ended, after cursing her a thousand times, by finding her 
handsomer than ever. Love chased away resentment, but it soon 
returned more bitter and more profound than ever. Josephine 
wept, accused herself humbly, confessed all the insults she had 
undergone, and those from which she had been able to withdraw 
herself. She cast her anathema upon that insolent and corrupted 
world in which she had wished to shine, and which had so cruelly 
punished her for the wish ; she swore never to return to it, and 
to perform any penance her lover might wish to impose upon her ; 
she wished to shave off her beautiful hair, and tear her alabaster 
bosom when she saw upon the temples and the chest of the Corin- 
thian the marks of his fury and his despair ; she threw herself 
upon her knees, she invoked the anger of God upon herself: she 
was so beautiful in her sorrow and exaltations, that the Corinthian, 
intoxicated with love, asked her forgiveness, kissed her naked feet 
a thousand times and was only roused from the delirium of passion 
by the voice of Yseult, who called her cousin to dinner and was 
anxious at her long sleep. 

Amaury returned to the workshop, loyally asked pardon of 
father Huguenin, who embraced him, scolding and wiping his 
eyes with the back of his sleeve. Then he placed himself at 
his orders with a zeal and a submission which effaced all his 
misconduct. He sang in chorus with his companions, which had 
not been the case for a long while ; he made a thousand jokes 
upon the Berrichon, who was vexed with him and ended by for- 
giving him — for he would rather be tormented than forgotten. 
At last the day’s work closed as gaily as it had begun badly. 


332 


THE COMPANION 


Pierre was the only one who remained sad and uneasy. His 
friend’s exuberant and sudden joy made him anxious. 

At sunset, Yseult, to escape from the society of the viscount, 
who, rudely repelled by Josephine, transferred to her his homage, 
less ardent indeed, but quite as insipid, quietly withdrew, and 
went to walk alone at the extremity of the park. Perhaps she 
thought she might meet Pierre there ; for, in whatever place she 
walked, she always met him. This is a miracle performed every 
day for beings who love each other, and there is no couple of 
lovers who can here accuse me of improbability. Nevertheless 
Pierre did not come that evening. He did not wish to lose sight 
of the Corinthian, whom he saw greatly agitated in spite of all 
his cheerfulness. He wished to sacrifice to the dignity of the 
Savinienne the only joy he had in this world, that of talking a 
quarter of an hour with Yseult. 

While interrogating with her eyes the circular path by which 
Pierre sometimes arrived, mademoiselle de Vilepreux saw ap- 
proach a woman of quite a large figure, who walked with much 
ease and nobleness in her rustic dress. She wore a gown of 
brown cotton cloth, and a mantle of blue woollen which covered 
her head, very much as the Florentine painters draped their 
figures of virgins. The regular beauty and the grave and pure 
expression of this woman gave her a striking resemblance to 
those divine heads of the school of Raphael. She led an ass, on 
which was seated a beautiful child with golden hair, clothed like 
herself in a dark, coarse dress, and whose legs hung in one of 
the panniers. Yseult was struck by this group which recalled 
to her the flight into Egypt, and she stopped to contemplate that 
living picture which only wanted a glory. 

On her side, the woman of the people was struck by the calm 
and benevolent face of the young chatelaine ; from her simple 
and almost austere dress she took her for a serving woman, and 
addressed her : 

“ % g°°d demoiselle,” said she to her, stopping the ass at the 
park-gate, “ will you have the goodness to tell me if I am still 
far from the village of Villepreux ?” 

“ ^ ou are already there, my good dame,” replied Yseult, “ you 
have only to follow the road which leads along the wall of this 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


333 


park, and in ten minutes you will reach the first houses of the 
town.” 

“ Many thanks to you and to the good God !” returned the tra- 
veller ; “ for my children are much fatigued.” 

At the same time Yseult saw a second child’s head, not less 
handsome than the first, rise up from the other pannier of the ass. 

“ Tn that case,” said she, “you can enter here. You will 
cross the park in a straight line and you will arrive five minutes 
sooner still.” 

“ Will they not consider it wrong?” asked the traveller. 

“ They will consider it quite right,” replied mademoiselle de 
Villepreux, going to meet her, and taking the bridle of the ass to 
lead it in. 

“You appear to be a girl of good heart; must I follow this 
alley straight along ?” 

“ I will go with you, for the dogs might frighten your children.” 

“ I was told truly,” returned the traveller, “ that I should find 
honest people here, and the proverb is right : As is the master, 
so is the servant ; for, without intending to offend you, I presume 
you must belong to the household.” 

“ I do so indeed,” replied Yseult, laughing. 

“ And for a long time, doubtless ?” 

“Ever since I have been in the world.” 

The children no sooner saw the fine trees and the green turf 
of the park, than they forgot their fatigue, jumped down from 
their ass, and began to run about joyously, while the ass, profiting 
by the opportunity, secretly snatched from time to time, a branch 
of verdure along the hedges. 

“ Your children are very beautiful,” said Yseult kissing the 
little girl, and taking the little boy in her arms to let him pluck 
some apples from an apple-tree. 

“ Poor fatherless children !” replied the woman of the people. 
“ I lost my good husband last spring.” 

“ Did he leave you a little property, at least ?” 

“ Nothing at all, and certainly it was not his fault ; it was not 
the heart that he wanted !” 

“ And have you come from a distance, thus, on foot ?” 

“ I came in a stage- wagon as far as the neighbouring city. 


334 


THE COMPANION 


There I was told I must cross the country. They directed me 
quite well, and I hired this poor ass to carry my little ones.” 

“ And what is the end of your journey ?” 

“ I stop here, my dear demoiselle, I have come to pass some 
time.” 

“ Have you relatives in our town ?” 

“ I have friends — that is to say,” added the traveller, as if she 
feared not to express herself with sufficient reserve, “ friends of 
my deceased husband, who have written to me that I could find 
work, and who have promised that they would obtain custom for 
me.” 

“ What can you do ?” 

“ Sew, wash, and iron fine linen.” 

“ That will do very well. There is no laundress here. You 
will have the work of the chateau, and that will employ you all 
the year.” 

“ You will procure it for me ?” 

“ I promise it to you !” 

“ It is the good God who made me meet you. I am not self-in- 
terested : I have nothing but my labor to feed those children with.” 

“ All will go well, I can assure you. Do your friends expect 
you V* 

“ Mon Dieu ! not so soon, I think. They wrote to me last 
week, and, instead of answering their letter, I have come at once. 
You must know, my good girl, I was a mother of companions ; 
but perhaps you know nothing of such matters ?” 

“ Excuse me, I know companions who have explained to me 
what that is. Then you have left your children ?” 

“ It was my children who left me. They could not hold the 
city ; and as I had not the means to furnish another establish- 
ment, I could not follow them. It is painful, be sure, to have a 
great family like that, and to be afterwards quite alone. It seems 
to me that I have nothing to do now, and yet I have these little 
ones to bring up. It was so trying to go, that I hurried to get 
away. We all cried, and when I think about it, I cry still.” 

“ Come, we will endeavor to make you forget them. Here we 
are in the court of the chateau. To what house are you going. 
Will you find a lodging with your friends ?” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


335 


“ I think not ; but certainly there is an inn at the town.” 

“ Not a very good one ; here is a better. If you will, you 
shall be lodged here until you can find a place to establish your- 
self.” 

“ In this chateau ? But they will not be willing to receive 
me !” 

“ You will be very well received. Come with me.” 

“ But, my child, you do not think ; I shall be taken for a 
beggar.” 

“ No ; and you will see that the people of the house are very 
honest.” 

“ If they are all like you, I believe so, indeed. Holy Virgin 
Mary ! it is like paradise here.” 

Yseult conducted the Savinienne and her family to an old pa- 
vilion which was called the Square tower, where a very neat 
apartment was appropriated to hospitality. She called a small 
boy of the farm, who came and took the ass, and a maid-servant, 
who went to get some supper for the children and their mother. 
Yseult had trained all her people to this kind of charity which 
she practised, and which she concealed under the aspect of oblig- 
ingness. 

The traveller was greatly surprised at this manner of proceed- 
ing, which took from her all anxiety, and seemed to wish to dis- 
pense with all gratitude. Yseult’s concise language and her 
straightforward and frank manners repelled every praise and 
every grateful expression. The woman of the people felt this, 
and was only the more touched by it. “ Well, well !” said she, 
embracing mademoiselle de Villepreux rather strongly, but with- 
an expression by which Yseult felt herself quite moved, in spite 
of the resolution she had made never to bestow on poverty the in- 
sult of pity, “ I see clearly that the good Cod has not yet aban- 
doned me.” 

“ Now,” said Yseult, overcoming her emotion, “ tell me the 
names of the friends you have in our village ; I will have them 
informed of your arrival, and they will come to see you here.” 

The traveller hesitated a moment, then she replied, “ You 
must send and tell my son Villepreux, PAmi-du-trait, otherwise 
called Pierre Huguenin, that the Savinienne has arrived.” 


336 


THE COMPANION 


Yseult shuddered; she looked at that woman still young, and 
beautiful as an angel, who had come to find Pierre and establish 
herself near him. She thought she had deceived herself, that 
what she had taken for love was only friendship, and that this 
was really the companion on whom he had long since fixed his 
choice. She felt herself fainting. But recovering her self-com- 
mand on the instant, “ You will see Pierre/’ said she to the Sa- 
vinenne, “ and you will tell him that I have received you very 
heartily. He will feel obliged to me.” 

She withdrew rapidly, gave the order to go and inform Pierre 
Huguenin, and ran to shut herself up in her chamber, where she 
remained for two hours, seated before her table, with her head in 
her hands. At the hour of tea, her grandfather sent for her. 
She entered the saloon as calm as if nothing serious had occu- 
pied her thoughts. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


337 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

Pierre ran to visit the Savinienne as soon as he learnt her ar- 
rival at the chateau. He flattered himself he should there find 
Amaury, who had escaped in the very middle of supper. But he 
did not find him there, and it was in vain that he expected him ; 
it was in vain that he looked for him in every direction. 

The evening passed without the appearance of the Corinthian. 
Pierre, in his previous reflections respecting the Savinenne’s ar- 
rival, had said to himself that her first interview with Amaury 
would decide their mutual destiny, and that, from the coldness or 
the joy of her lover, she would discover the truth or retain her 
illusion. His embarrassment was therefore very great ; for the 
absence of the Corinthian might have an occasion independent of 
his will, and Pierre had no right to make his friend’s confession 
before giving him time to justify himself. On the other side, the 
Savinienne was so calm, so full of faith and hope, and Pierre fore- 
saw so clearly the inevitable disappointment which awaited her, 
that he reproached himself for confirming her in her error. She 
did not question him, a secret modesty forbidding her to pro- 
nounce first the name of him whom she loved ; but she expected 
him to speak to her of his friend in some other manner than to 
repeat every moment, “ I do not see the Corinthian coming,” or 
“ I hope the Corinthian will come.” 

Her attention was diverted for a moment, when, after having 
spoken, several times, of the obligingness of the chamber-maid , 
whose generous reception she had at once related to Pierre, she 
made him guess, from the description she gave of her, that this 
chamber-maid was no other than the young chatelaine. Then 
she questioned him a great deal respecting that rich and noble 
young lady who stopped travellers on the highway to give them 
hospitality for the night, and to busy herself about their anxieties 
for the morrow, and who did these things with such simplicity of 
16 


33S 


THE COMPANION 


heart that one could neither guess her rank, nor understand, at first, 
how good she was, unless good one’s self. From the details which 
Pierre gave her respecting mademoiselle de Villepreux, the Sa- 
vinienne conceived for that young person a kind of religious 
veneration ; and her joy was great on learning the judgment she 
had passed upon the sculptures of the Corinthian as well as the 
protection she had secured for him on the part of her grandfather. 
But when, from questions to questions, she learned the Corinthi- 
an’s projects, and his desire to go to Paris and change his trade, 
she became pensive and stupefied ; and, after having listened to 
all that Pierre tried to make her comprehend, she replied to him, 
shaking her head : — “ All this astonishes me greatly, master 
Pierre, and appears to me so little natural, that I think I am hear- 
ing one of those stories which our companions sometimes read in 
books during the evenings, and which they call romances. You 
say that Amaury wishes to become an artist. Is he not one while 
remaining a joiner ? I should rather think he wishes to become 
a citizen and to leave his class. I do not approve of that, I have 
never seen the pretence of elevating one’s self above one’s fellows 
succeed well with anybody. Those who do so lose the esteem 
of their former companions, and become very unhappy because 
they have no friends. What does he intend to do at Paris ? 
Has he the means of establishing himself there ? You say 
that he will require many years still to become skilful in his new 
trade, and many more years before that trade will give him 
enough to live upon. Then he will live upon the charities of 
this lord in the meanwhile ? I am willing to grant that this 
count de Villepreux may be a fine man ; but it is always hard 
to accept the succor of the rich, and I do not understand how, 
when he has reached a point where he can maintain himself, he 
is willing to place himself again under the tutorage of masters, 
or at the disposition of benevolent persons.” 

All that Pierre could say to assert the right of intellect to all 
the means of advancement did not convince the Savinienne. 
Her good sense and her natural uprightness never failed her in 
reference to matters which she could comprehend ; but her ideas 
were confined to a certain circle, and, by the side of her great 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


339 


qualities, there was a certain number of prepossessions and pre- 
judices by which she held to the people as the tree to its root. 

Her secret dissatisfaction and her sorrowful anxiety increased 
when, the chateau clock striking eleven, she was obliged to give 
up all hope of seeing the Corinthian before the next day. She 
had put her children to bed, and felt herself too much fatigued 
to sit up any longer ; but after she had gone to bed she could 
not sleep, and, yielding to the sad presentiments which rose con- 
fusedly in her mind, she passed a part of the night in weeping 
and praying. 

The Corinthian had torn himself with so much effort from the 
society of the marchioness at the hour of dinner, that she had 
promised him she would return to her chamber as soon as she 
could escape ; and hardly had he himself finished his repast, 
than he went to wait for her in the secret passage. She pre- 
tended a severe headache, in order to leave the saloon early, 
and returned to lock herself up in her own apartment. There, 
to please the Corinthian and to make him forget all the bitter- 
ness of his jealousy, she conceived the idea of arraying herself 
in her most beautiful attire for him alone. She had in her 
wardrobe a carnival disguise which became her wonderfully ; 
it was a ball dress of the last century. She crisped and pow- 
dered her hair, which she afterwards ornamented with pearls, 
flowers, and plumes. She put on a dress with a long waist and 
farthingales, rich and coquettish to the last degree, and all gar- 
nished with ribbons and laces. She did not forget either the 
high-heeled slippers nor the great fan painted by Bouchon, nor 
the massive rings on all the fingers, nor the patch above the 
eyebrow and at the corner of the mouth. As to rouge, she had 
no need of it ; her natural brilliancy would have made it look 
pale, and an abbe of those times would have said that Love 
nestled in the dimples of her cheeks. This costume, half sump- 
tuous, half gallant, was singularly appropriate to her height and 
figure. She dazzled the Corinthian so as to make him crazy. 
Thus transformed into a marchioness of the Regency, she 
seemed to him a hundred times more a marchioness than ever ; 
and the thought that so beautiful a woman, so well arrayed, and 
of so proud a carriage, gave herself to him, a child of the peo- 


340 


THE COMPANION 


pie, poor, obscure, and badly dressed, filled him with a pride 
which perhaps degenerated somewhat into vanity. This chil- 
dren’s play diverted and intoxicated them the whole night. 
Between them both they did not number forty years. Never 
had a really serious thought bowed Josephine’s beautiful head, 
and the Corinthian felt within him such an ardor for life, such a 
need of knowing everything, of feeling everything, and pos- 
sessing everything, that the grave teachings of the Savinienne 
and of Pierre Huguenin were effaced from his heart like the 
fleeting image which a bird reflects in the water as he passes 
over it in his flight. The marchioness had eaten nothing at 
dinner, in order to make a pretext for having supper served in 
her chamber, that she might share the delicate dishes with the 
Corinthian. She amused herself in arranging this supper, 
served on silver plate, upon a little table which she ornamented 
with vases of flowers and a great mirror in the centre, in order 
that the Corinthian could see her double and admire her in all 
her attitudes. Then she hermetically closed the shutters and the 
curtains of her chamber, lighted the candelabras on the mantel- 
pieces, placed tapers on every side, burnt perfumes, and played 
the marchioness as much as she could, under pretence of making 
a parody of the old times. But this play turned to a serious 
matter. She was too pretty to resemble a caricature ; and the 
refinements of luxury and of voluptuousness too easily insinu- 
ated themselves into his artist’s organization for the Corinthian 
to think of satirizing that olden time which was revealed to him, 
the effeminacy of which appeared to him at this moment more 
to be regretted than it was revolting. That delightful supper, 
that night of pleasure, that chamber arranged as a boudoir, 
that little citizen’s daughter disguised as a gallant great lady, 
struck his imagination a fatal blow. Until then he had artlessly 
loved Josephine for herself, regretting that she was not a poor, 
country girl, and cursing the riches and greatness which placed 
eternal obstacles between them. From this moment he became 
accustomed to the trifles which composed the life of that woman ; 
he found a piquant attraction in the mystery and danger of his 
love, and turned his desires without repugnance towards that 
privileged world in which he dreamed that he would make room 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


341 


for himself. In his transport he swore to the marchioness that 
she would not long have to blush at her choice, that he would 
know how to make fly wide open before him the doors of these 
saloons, the walls of which it had been his destiny to wainscot, 
and in which he wished to tread upon the carpets and breathe 
the perfumes, on some day when he should be seen to enter them 
with head erect and an assured glance. Dreams of ambition 
and of vain glory took possession of his brain ; the love of 
Josephine seemed bound to the brilliant future to which he be- 
lieved himself called ; and the remembrance of the Savinienne 
no longer presented itself to him but as a frightful slavery, as a 
bond with poverty, sadness, and obscurity. 

Thus, at his awaking, he received as the stroke of a poignard 
the news which Pierre gave him of the mother’s arrival and her 
presence at the chateau. Amaury could have wished to hide 
himself beneath the earth, but he had to gather resignation, in 
order to appear before her. He armed himself with courage, 
assumed a nonchalant air, caressed the children, played with them, 
and talked of business with the Savinienne, trying, by much 
zeal and devotedness in her material concerns, to make her for- 
get the freezing coldness of his looks and the forced ease of his 
manners. While affecting this audacity, the Corinthian thought, 
in spite of himself, of the roues of the regency, with whom Jo- 
sephine had entertained him all night, and he wanted but little of 
endeavoring to believe himself a marquis. The Savinienne, in 
a deep stupor, heard him talk of the lodging he intended to seek 
for her, and the customers he should obtain for the establishment 
of her business. She let him move and chat around her with- 
out answering him, and this silent dejection in which he saw her 
began to frighten him. He felt his courage vanish, and was 
seized with a timid respect which did not very well agree with 
his attempts at presumption. 

The Savinienne rose at last, and said to him, as she extended 
her hand : 

“ I thank you, my dear son, for the eagerness you manifest to 
serve me ; but you must not let that trouble you. I have no 
need of assistance for the moment, I have already found friends 
here who take an interest in me, and my lodging will be quickly 


342 


THE COMPANION 


procured. Go to your work, I beseech you ; the day has be- 
gun, and you know that the duty of a good journeyman is punc- 
tuality.” 

Pierre remained with her a little while after the Corinthian 
had retired, expecting some burst of her sorrow ; but she 
remained firm and silent, expressed no regret, no doubt, and 
did not show that she had changed her intentions respecting her 
establishment at Villepreux. 

As soon as Pierre had gone to the workshop, the Savinienne 
resumed her mourning, which she had laid aside while travelling, 
arranged her widow’s cap with care, put her chamber in order, 
took her children by the hand, and led them to a maid-servant 
who promised to carry them to breakfast ; then she asked if it 
would be possible for her to speak with mademoiselle de Ville- 
preux. After a few minutes, she was introduced into the cham- 
ber of the young chatelaine. 

Yseult had slept but little. She had just waked, and the first 
feeling which came to her on opening her eyes was a cruel dis- 
enchantment and a secret confusion. But her determination had 
been taken the day before, and when she was informed that the 
woman installed by her in the traveller’s chamber asked to see 
her, she resolved to be great and to do nothing by halves. 

“ Take a seat,” said she to the Savinienne, extending her 
hand to her, and making her sit down by the side of her bed. 
“ Are you rested ? Did your children sleep well ?” 

“ My children did sleep well, thanks to God and your good 
heart, mademoiselle,” replied the Savinienne, kissing Yseult’s 
hand with a dignified manner, which prevented the young girl 
from repelling this act of deference and of gratitude. 

“ I do not come to ask your pardon for not guessing yesterday 
with whom I was talking : I know you are above that. Neither 
do I come to lose myself in thanks for your goodness towards 
us : I have been told you do not like praises. But I come to 
you as to a person of great heart and good counsel, to confide to 
you a sorrow I have.” 

“ Who then has inspired you with this confidence in me, my 
dear dame ?” said Yseult, making a great effort over herself in 
order to encourage the Savinienne. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


343 


“ It is master Pierre Huguenin,” replied the mother of com- 
panions with decision. 

“ Then you spoke to him of me ?” returned Yseult trembling. 

“ We talked of you for more than an hour,” replied the Savi- 
nienne, “ and that is why I love you as if I had seen you born.” 

“ Savinienne, you do me great good in saying that,” returned 
Yseult, who, in spite of all her courage, felt a burning tear es- 
cape from her eyes. “ When you see master Pierre again, you 
can tell him that I will be your friend as I am his.” 

“ I knew that beforehand,” replied the Savinienne ; “ for I 
have come to make a trial of it at once.” 

Here the Savinienne related to Yseult her whole story from 
her marriage with Savinien up to the moment when she left Blois 
in consequence of the Corinthian’s invitation. Then she added : 

“ I have fatigued you greatly by my recital, my good demoi- 
selle ; but you will see that it is a delicate matter, and one on 
which I could consult only you. In spite of all the esteem I 
have for master Pierre, I could not understand him last evening ; 
and to-day, I am still far from comprehending what he wishes to 
explain to me. He tells me that the Corinthian ought to be a 
sculptor, that for this purpose he must return to apprenticeship ; 
that it is you, mademoiselle, and monsieur your father, who wish 
to send him to Paris ; that, for several years, he will earn nothing, 
and will live upon your benefits. If this be so, the marriage 
that was projected between us cannot take place ; for, if I mar- 
ried the Corinthian next year, 1 should be a charge to you, and 
should be so for a long time, as well as my children. Even if 
you should consent to this, I could not be willing: my children 
are born free, they must not be brought up in dependence. This 
was a prejudice which my husband had, and which I shall re- 
spect now that he is dead. I have not concealed from Pierre 
that his friend’s project pained me. But doubtless the Corinthian 
is more attached to that project than to me ; for this morning, 
when I saw him again, he was so constrained and so singular 
with me that I did not recognise him. He seemed vexed with 
me that I did not share his illusions. This is the position in 
which we are. It is a sad one for me, and I am not without re- 
morse for having come here to confide my existence to chance 


344 


THE COMPANION 


and the caprice of a young man, while I might have remained 
at Blois under the protection of a wise and faithful friend who 
would not have abandoned me for anything in the world. It is, 
I believe, a crime in a widow, who has children, to listen to her 
heart in her choice of the man who must protect them. She 
should consult only her reason and her duty. Yes, I am greatly 
culpable, I feel it at this hour. But the fault is committed : to 
recall what 1 said to Bon-soutien would be a want of dignity, and 
the mother of Savinien’s children must not pass for a trifling and 
capricious woman ; that would some day reflect upon the honor 
of his daughter. I must therefore endeavor to do the best I can 
in the unfortunate situation to which I have brought myself. It 
is for this purpose, and not to weary you with my sorrow, that I 
have come to consult her whom Pierre Huguenin calls the good 
angel of broken hearts.” 

The Savinienne’s recital had taken away the enormous weight 
which oppressed the heart of Yseult. She felt grateful for the 
good she had done to her, and at the same time touched by the 
wisdom and uprightness of this woman, who had no other light 
in her soul than that of her duty. 

“ My dear Savinienne,” said she, passing one of her arms 
around the elegant and solid bust of the woman of the people, 
“ you ask advice of me, and you appear to me so wise that it 
seems to me it would be for me to receive it of you every mo- 
ment of my life. I can give you no information as to what is 
laking place at the bottom of your Corinthian’s heart. It would 
seem to me impossible that he should not adore such a being as 
you ; and yet I should fear to deceive you did I tell you that this 
young man will prefer domestic happiness and the peaceful and 
laborious life of the mechanic to the struggles, sufferings, and 
triumphs of the artist. We shall talk about him often enough, I 
hope, for me to succeed in making you comprehend what his 
genius and his ambition command him to do. I have sometimes 
conversed on this subject with Pierre, and Pierre will tell you 
thereupon some excellent things by which he has convinced me, 
and which decided me to develope the vocation of the sculptor, 
instead of hindering it.” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


345 


The Savinienne opened her eyes very wide, and endeavored 
to understand Yseult. 

“ Then you yourself also had the idea that you might be urging 
him to his ruin ?” said she, with a deep sigh. 

“Yes, I did sometimes have it, and I was frightened at the 
haste my father manifested to draw that child from his condition 
in order to expose him to all the dangers of Paris, and to all the 
hazards of an artist’s life. It seemed to me that he assumed a 
grave responsibility, and that, if the Corinthian did not succeed 
according to our hopes, we should have rendered him a very sad 
service.” 

“ And yet you neverthelesss continued to put that into his 
head?” 

“ Pierre decided that we had not the right to deprive him of it. 
Each of us has his peculiar aptness, and bears in himself the 
germ of his destiny, my good Savinienne. God makes nothing 
in vain. He has his mysterious and profound views in endowing 
us with such or such a talent, with such or such a virtue, and, 
perhaps, with such or such a defect. The instincts of youth are 
sacred, and no one has the right to smother the flame of genius. 
On the contrary, it is a duty to excite and to develope it, at the 
risk of giving to the individual as many sufferings as new facul- 
ties.” 

“ I can hardly believe what you say,” replied the Savienne, 
“ and I know not how to direct myself in the midst of all this. 
I was about to tell you that if the Corinthian would be rich, 
happy, and honored in his new trade, I was resolved to sacrifice 
myself, to be silent or to depart ; but you tell me that he will 
suffer, be ruined perhaps, and yet that all this risk must be taken 
to please God. You are more learned than I, and you speak so 
well that I know not how to answer you, except that I do not 
understand, and that I am very much grieved.” 

While saying this the Savinienne began to weep, which was 
not often the case with her, unless she were alone. 

Yseult tried to console her, and besought her not to be pre- 
cipitate. She persuaded her to establish herself in the village, 
were it only for a few months, in order to see if the Corinthian, 
free in his choice and having time for reflection, would not re- 
16 * 


346 


THE COMPANION 


turn to love and calm happiness. Yseult was as far as the 
Savinienne from supposing Amaury’s unfaithfulness. The loves 
of the marchioness were so well protected by the discovery of the 
secret passage, the Corinthian had so much discretion and pru- 
dence in his outward relations with the chateau, that no one had 
the least suspicion. 

The Savinienne therefore resumed courage, and decided to re- 
main : Yseult besought her, in the name of her children, not to 
be unreasonably proud with her, and at least to keep her cham- 
ber in the pavilion of the court ; observing to her that she could 
work for the village at the same time as for the chateau, and that 
she could not, therefore, be considered in any manner as a domes- 
tic. The Savinienne yielded, and remained thus, for the rest of 
the season, in an almost intimate friendship with mademoiselle 
de Villepreux, who did not pass a day without going to talk with 
her an hour or two, and who gave lessons in writing and arith- 
metic to her little Manette. This intimacy gave Pierre much 
more frequent opportunities to see Yseult, and to become pas- 
sionately attached to that noble creature. When he saw her 
seated beside the Savinienne’s work table holding the little boy 
on her knees and teaching him the alphabet, her who read 
Montesquieu, Pascal, and Leibnitz in secret, he had to do vio- 
lence to his feelings not to throw himself on his knees before her. 
Yseult had indeed a little coquetry with him ; she made herself 
one of the people to please him, tending the Savinienne’s chafing 
dishes, and sometimes taking her flat-iron, when the children 
called her off, to iron in her stead the bands of the curate or 
father Huguenin’s cravats. Love and republican enthusiasm 
threw so much poetry upon these prosaic details, that Pierre no 
longer trod upon the earth, but lived in a kind of mystic fever in 
which his intellect grew every day, and in which his heart, given 
up without restraint to all its good instincts, was enriched with 
new strength and ardor to conceive and to desire the good and 
the beautiful. I assure you, friend reader, that those two pla- 
tonic lovers exchanged very great words in the square tower, 
even while thinking they said the most simple things in the 
world, and that this beautiful society, which you think so well 
framed, will bend like a work of straw on that day when the logic 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


347 


of great hearts shall bring to bear upon it those eternal truths 
which you call common place, and which are agitated every day 
around certain hearths where you would not deign to seat your- 
self with a new coat. Before the gothic window of this tower 
was a great vine, where the pigeons came to play on the edge of 
the roof. Yseult had tamed them by leaning frequently on the 
window sill ; and while the capuchin, the fantail, or the pouter* 
came to pick her hand, she often had high revelations respecting 
perfectibility, and ascended with Pierre, who during this time 
was at work on an ornament of the wainscotting, even to the 
loftiest regions of the ideal. 

While the resigned Savinienne worked for her children, and 
retempered her empty and desolate heart in friendship and the 
religious sentiment, the Corinthian suffered very severe tortures. 
Always constrained and humiliated at himself in the presence of 
that noble woman, he went to stifle his remorse in the society of 
the marchioness ; but he no longer found there the same happi- 
ness. A profound sadness, an incessant anxiety had taken 
possession of Josephine. It seemed to the Corinthian that she 
concealed from him some secret. The fear of the world reigned 
over her, in spite of all the maledictions she privately bestowed 
upon it, and in spite of the vengeance which she thought she took 
in her hidden pleasures with the man of the people. But, at the 
least noise that was heard, she had in the company of Amaury 
shudderings or faintings which betrayed shame and fear. He 
was sometimes indignant at them, at other times he excused 
them ; but, at the bottom, he would have desired more boldness 
and confidence in that mistress so fiery in pleasure, so cowardly 
in reflection. In presence of her fears, the Corinthian felt his 
pride soften, and he resigned himself to great sacrifices. To 
avoid the suspicions which her change of character might have 
occasioned, the marchioness wished to see the world from time to 
time ; and, in spite of the humiliations she had there undergone, 
she did not lose a single opportunity to reattach herself to it. Her 
coquetry was every day renewed from its ashes. The Corin- 
thian had great conflicts of anger and tenderness ; and, in these 


* Different kinds of pigeons. 


348 


THE COMPANION 


struggles, it seemed to him that, instead of being reanimated, his 
heart was wearied and tended to become hardened. His char- 
acter became embittered ; he avoided Pierre, resisted father 
Huguenin, and almost despised the other journeymen. The 
hard habits of poverty began to weigh upon him ; he had no 
longer any pleasure in sculpturing his wood work, aspiring with 
anxiety to cut marble and to see models. The good Savinienne 
remarked with sorrow that he paid much attention to his toilet 
and acquired habits of carelessness. 

“ Alas !” said she to Pierre Huguenin, “ he spends all his earn- 
ings in buying velvet vests and getting his blouses embroidered. 
When I see him passing in the morning combed and dressed 
like an image, I no longer ask myself why he arrives last at the 
workshop.” 

As to father Huguenin, he was very much scandalized at the 
Corinthian’s wearing fine boots instead of thick shoes, and he 
sometimes said to him during supper : 

“ My boy, when we see the hands of a workman bleach and 
his nails grow long, we may say it is a bad sign ; for his tools 
rust and his boards mould.” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


349 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

% 

M. Isidore Lerebours, the employe aux ponts-et-chaussees, had 
been for some time a fixed inhabitant of the chateau of Villepreux. 
His father pretended that he had had some disagreement with his 
inspector, and that, disgusted with the business, he had given in his 
resignation . But the fact was that Isidore’s stupidity and ignorance 
had become insupportable to his chief, that very sharp words had 
been exchanged between them, and that, in consequence of the 
report which that discussion had occasioned, he had been dis- 
missed. He was lodged at the chateau, until a new employment 
could be found for him, and dwelt in the tower which his father 
occupied at the bottom of the great court, and which was opposite 
the Savinienne’s square tower. 

Seeing therefore from his window all that passed there, he was 
soon convinced that the beautiful widow had no amorous intrigue 
either with Pierre or with the Corinthian ; and, not doubting that 
his fine clothes and his good looks would produce an effect upon 
that simple woman who was obliged to work for her living, he ven- 
tured to coquet about her. The Savinienne did not at first think 
of being frightened, and did not feel for him that aversion with 
which he inspired all the other women of the house. The mother 
of companions had seen so many and such rough natures growl 
around her that she was no longer astonished at anything, and 
moreover did not know that puerile and anticipated fear which 
is a near neighbor to encouraging coquetry. 

Charmed at not being snubbed by her as he was accustomed 
to be by Julia and the other maids, Isidore thought the Savini- 
enne would be of a better composition, and became so bold with 
her that he wished to flutter about her in the court when she 
crossed it in the evening after having carried her linen to the 
chateau. These attentions were not to the taste of the Savini- 
enne ; she threatened to give him a slap, which she would have 


350 


THE COMPANION 


done as quietly as she said it ; but it was written that Isidore 
should be repressed by a hand somewhat stronger than hers. 

One evening, being intoxicated, Isidore saw the Savinienne 
looking at the foot of the tower for a young pigeon which had 
fallen down from the nest. He rushed towards her without see- 
ing that Pierre Huguenin was at two paces distance ; and he 
recommenced his rude importunities with expressions so frivolous 
and manners so little respectful, that Pierre, indignant, approached 
and ordered him to withdraw. Isidore, who nevertheless was 
not brave, but to whom wine gave boldness, wished to insist, and 
becoming entirely brutal, asserted that he would kiss the Savini- 
enne before the eyes of her gallant . “ I am not her gallant,” 

said Pierre, “ but I am her friend ; and to prove it, I will rid her 
of a fool.” Saying this, he took Isidore by the two shoulders, and, 
although he retained patience enough not to use all his strength, 
he threw him against a wall, where the ex-employe rather da- 
maged his face. He held himself satisfied, and knowing thence- 
forth the workman’s arm, he did not boast of his mishap, but he 
felt all his projects of vengeance return, and his hatred against 
Pierre Huguenin was rekindled more vividly and with more 
reason than ever. 

He began by attacking the weakest enemy, and by slandering 
the Savinienne. He confided to everybody in a low voice that the 
Corinthian and Pierre shared her favors with a cynical contempt 
for her and for the public morals, and even that the Berrichon 
was her lover to boot. “ He was very sure of it,” he said, “ he 
could see from his window everything that happened at night in 
the square tower.” 

Several persons refused to believe this ; a greater number be- 
lieved it without examination and repeated it without scruple. 
The domestics of the chateau, closely observing the Savinienne’s 
conduct, confidently repelled the calumnies of Isidore, whom, 
moreover, they cordially detested ; and, as they had a great deal 
of esteem and affection for Pierre, they were carefui not to 
repeat them to him. But they retailed them to the Corinthian, 
whom they liked much less, because they found him proud, and 
rather contemptuous towards themselves. 

This was a fresh punishment for Amaury, and a new remorse, 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


351 


to see her whom he had loved and had invited to his side, de- 
famed in consequence of him, and defended by another than him- 
self. He swore that young Lerebours should repent it severely, 
but he was prevented from any action by the jealousy of the 
marchioness. 

Josephine had the custom of conversing in the morning with her 
maid, while her hair was dressed, and Julia kept her informed of 
all the tittle-tattle of the servants’ hall and of the village. When 
she learned the suspicions of which the Savinienne was the object, 
before examining if they were well-founded, she conceived a 
strange aversion for that victim of her love for the Corinthian. 
She began by interrogating the latter, and did it with so much 
bitterness and excitement, that the Corinthian, whose humor was 
already quite gloomy, replied to her with some hauteur that he 
owed her no account of his past life. 

“ Nevertheless,” added he, “ I will tell you, that you may see 
how very unfounded your insults are, and how very unjust your 
jealousy. It is quite true that I have loved the Savinienne and 
that I have been loved by her ; it is true that I was to have mar- 
ried her at the expiration of her mourning, and that I should have 
done so, had I not met you ; it is quite true also that I have 
broken the most faithful and the most generous heart there ever 
was, to preserve one which disdains me and escapes from me 
every moment. But be easy ; though I feel my madness, though 
I am certain of being broken by you some day in my turn, I 
adore you and I no longer love the Savinienne. In vain do I 
blush at my conduct, in vain would I wish to make amends for 
my crime : the sight of her is a horrible punishment for me, and 
when Pierre drags me into her company, I count the minutes 
which I could wish to pass with you.” 

“ And then,” said the marchioness, shaking her head with an 
incredulous air, “ that generous and faithful woman, whom you 
do not even deign to look at, throws herself from despair into 
the arms of your friend Pierre, and consoles herself with him 
for your desertion.” 

The Corinthian was outraged by this accusation. He would 
never have thought that wounded vanity could have given to 
Josephine such evil thoughts and such attacks of wickedness. 


352 


THE COMPANION 


He had a cruel proof of this ; for in his indignation, he warmly 
defended the Savinienne, and goaded to extremity by the bitter 
sarcasms of the marchioness, he allowed himself to be carried so 
far as to depreciate the latter in order to exalt her rival. Then 
Josephine became furious, had a real nervous attack and was not 
appeased until, broken by fatigues, exhausted by tears, she had 
brought to her feet her lover, distracted and broken like herself. 

These storms were renewed the following evening, and were 
still more violent. Josephine drove the Corinthian from her cham- 
ber, and, when he was in the secret passage, she had such fits 
of sobbing and was so delirious, that he returned to defend her 
from herself. They were reconciled only to quarrel again ; and 
in those sad convulsions of a love in which faith no longer pre- 
vailed, there passed some of those words which kill the ideal, 
and some of those answers which nothing can efface. The Co- 
rinthian, dismayed, asked himself with horror if it was love or 
hate that existed between him and Josephine. 

Until then such precautions had been taken by them that not 
a breath, not an imprudent sound, had disturbed the silence of 
the long nights in the old chateau. But, in these nights of storm, 
they trusted too much to the thickness of the walls and the iso- 
lated situation of the apartment. The count, who slept but little 
and whose slumbers were light, as is the case with all old per- 
sons, was struck by stifled cries, dull groans, and bursts of 
voices suddenly repressed, which seemed to exhale from the 
massive sides of the wall. The secret passage ran at no great 
distance from his bed-chamber. He knew this, but was igno- 
rant that a communication could be established between that 
blind passage and the narrower and more mysterious slip which 
the Corinthian alone had discovered in the wainscotting of the 
chapel. 

The old count had little faith in ghosts. At first he thought 
of his grand-daughter, rose, and approached her apartment, which 
was situated at the extremity of the corridor, and which had a 
comunication with the workshop through the turret. He heard 
no voice, entered softly, found Yseult peacefully sleeping, and 
crossed her chamber to descend the little winding staircase which 
led to the turret study. During this short passage the strange 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


353 


noises which had struck his ear were no longer heard. But when 
he had advanced upon the gallery of the chapel, he seemed to 
find them again. 

The count had always been very near-sighted, and, to make 
amends, his hearing was excessively fine and practised. He 
heard, as through an acoustic tube, two voices which quarrelled, 
and which seemed to come from a great distance. He examined 
the sculptures with his eye-glass; but the moveable pan net was 
too far off for him to see the joint. Besides he heard nothing 
further, and he was about to retire, when he saw the pannel move, 
slide as into a wing, and the Corinthian, pale, with his hair in 
disorder, and rage in his eyes, leap from a height of ten feet 
upon a heap of shavings which he had placed there to break the 
noise of his daily fall. (He ascended with a ladder which he 
afterwards threw down upon those same shavings to prevent any 
suspicion on the part of those who might enter the workshop 
during the night.) 

As soon as the count had seen the pannel move, he had drawn 
back, and, hiding himself behind the tapestry curtain, with his 
glass he had observed the Corinthian without being perceived. 
Hardly had the young man retired when the count descended to 
the workshop, rubbed his crutch in a pot of white lead, and made 
a mark on the moveable panel that he might recognise it. Then, 
before daylight, he went to wake Camille, his old valet-de-chambre, 
the smallest, the most brisk, the sharpest, the most crafty, and 
most discreet of all the Frontins of past times. Camille took 
his master-key, and conducted his master by another route to the 
workshop. He placed the ladder against the designated panel, 
took his dark lantern, climbed up actively in spite of his seventy 
years, penetrated into the mysterious passage like a ferret, and, 
passing through the opening made in the wall, went as far as the 
door of the marchioness’s alcove, which he knew very well from 
having in his youth introduced thereby a rival of his master — 
on which account the passage had been walled up, but too late. 

When he returned to inform the count- (not without some embar- 
rassment) of the result of his journey through the walls, the count, 
instead of being troubled, said to him with an ironical air : “ Ca- 


354 


THE COMPANION 


mille, I did not know that instead of one passage there were two ! 
I have been deceived longer than I thought.’’ 

Then, recommending him to be silent respecting the existence 
of the passage, and very careful not to tell him what man he had 
seen come out of it, he went to bed again very tranquilly. He 
had lived so long that nothing could seem new to him, nor excite 
his astonishment or his indignation. But he did not go to sleep 
without having calculated what he had to do in order to put an 
end to an intrigue which he was not willing to tolerate in any 
manner. 

The next day, early in the morning, young Raoul started for 
the hunt, with Isidore Lerebours, whom he used as a stout 
pricker in chasing hares, and as a brazen-faced jockey in the 
purchase or exchange of his horses. Towards noon, as they 
returned towards the chateau, he asked him several questions 
about the Savinienne, whose beauty had excited in him some 
desire ; and, Isidore having replied that she was a hypocritical 
prude, he asked him if he thought she would be accessible to 
some presents. Isidore, who especially desired to revenge him- 
self on Pierre, encouraged him in his project of seduction, and 
added that if he could drive away Pierre Huguenin, who was 
very jealous of her, it would be quite easy to get her to listen to 
him. 

“ It does not seem to me an easy matter to drive that workman 
away from the house,” replied Raoul ; “ my father and my sister 
are crazy about him, and quote him on every occasion as a man 
of genius. What sort of a man is he ?” 

“ A fool,” replied the ex-employe aux ponts-et-Chaussees, “a 
clown, who would fail of respect towards you if you were to 
commit yourself in any manner whatsoever with him. He gives 
himself grand airs because M. the count patronizes him, and he 
says quite loudly, that if you should pretend to look at the Sa- 
vinienne, you would find somebody to talk to, count as you are.” 

“ Ah ! well, we will see that. But tell me, is the Savinienne 
really his mistress then ?” 

“ You are the only one that does not know it.” 

“ Still my sister is persuaded she is the most honest person 
in the world.” 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


355 


“ Alas ! mademoiselle Yseult is in a great error. It is very 
unfortunate that she has allowed those people to become familiar 
with her ; it may be of more injury to her than she thinks.” 

Raoul immediately became serious, and slackening his horse’s 
pace, “ What do you mean by that,” said he ; “ what familiarity 
do you find possible between my sister and people of that class.” 

The reader has not forgotten the aversion which Lerebours, 
the son, cherished against Yseult since the day when she had 
laughed at his fall from horseback. On her side, she had never 
concealed from him the antipathy and the species of contempt she 
experienced for him, and the adventure of the staircase plan had 
drawn from her some railleries which had reached Isidore. He 
had therefore never neglected an opportunity to speak disparag- 
ingly of her, when he could do so without compromising himself ; 
and, for some time, he had carried his vengeance so far as to in- 
sinuate that mademoiselle de Villepreux did not look askance at 
young Huguenin ; that, from his chamber, he had seen them talk 
together for whole hours in the Savinienne’s apartment, and that 
it was at least very singular that a young lady of her rank should 
frequent the society of a woman of bad life, and should choose her 
friends in the gutter. 

He therefore thought that by attributing to public opinion the 
filthy ideas which had originated in himself, and by making 
the young republican’s ultra brother acquainted with them, he 
should strike a great blow either at the independence and domes- 
tic happiness of Yseult, or at Pierre Huguenin and the Savinienne. 
He answered Raoul that the whole household had remarked the 
strange intimacy which had been established in the square tower 
between the young lady of the chateau, the laundress, and the 
mechanics ; that the domestics had talked about it in the village ; 
that, from the village, the ill-natured reports had gone still fur- 
ther, and that, in the fairs and markets of the neighborhood, nothing 
else was talked about. He added that this cost him a mortal suf- 
fering, and that he had almost fought with those who thus slan- 
dered M. Raoul’s sister. 

“ You should have done so and never have spoken of it,” re- 
plied Raoul, who had listened to him in silence ; “ but, since you 
have done neither the one nor the other, I strongly advise you, 


356 


THE COMPANION 


M. Isidore, not to complain to any other than myself of the ma. 
lignity of which my sister is the object. It is possible that she 
may have had too much freedom for a young person ; but it is 
impossible that she can ever have made a bad use of it. It is 
possible, also, that I may undertake to put a stop to the causes of 
these evil reports ; it is possible, especially, that I may make an 
example, and that the insolent boasters may have to repent be- 
fore long. As to you, remember that there is a manner of de- 
fending persons to whom you owe respect, which is worse than 
accusing them. If you forget that, I may, in spite of all the 
friendship I have for you, break my best cane over your head.” 

Saying this, Raoul spurred up, and with his horse’s chest press- 
ed roughly upon Isidore’s Beauceron pony, which was jogging 
along by his side. The steward’s son was compelled to give 
way to his master, who lightly cleared the park gate, and left be- 
hind him the officious talker, quite astonished and a little uneasy 
at the result of his enterprise. 

While the Savinienne was the subject of this conversation, 
there was one not less animated respecting her between Yseult 
and the marchioness. Yseult had entered her cousin’s chamber 
in the morning and had been made anxious by the alteration in her 
features. The marchioness had replied that she suffered severe- 
ly from a nervous attack. She had scolded her servant at every 
word ; she had tried on ten neckerchiefs without finding one that 
was bleached and ironed to her liking, and she had ended by for- 
bidding Julia to trust her laces any more to that stupid Savini- 
enne, who did not know how to do anything but cause scandal 
and have children. 

As soon as Julia had retired, Yseult reproached Josephine se- 
verely for the manner in which she had expressed herself with 
regard to a respectable woman. 

To praise the Savinienne before the marchioness was like 
throwing boiling oil upon fire. She continued to accuse her, with 
a strange bitterness, with being Pierre Huguenin’s and Amaury’s 
mistress. 

“ I cannot understand, my dear child,” Yseult replied to her, 
with a smile of pity, “ How you can grant credence to such un- 
worthy reports, and how you can give them utterance with your 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


357 


pretty mouth. If my mind were as evil disposed as yours is this 
morning, I should tell you that I am almost tempted to consider 
as serious the jestings we formerly had with you respecting the 
Corinthian.” 

“From you, that would assuredly be a mortal insult,” re- 
plied the marchioness ; “ for you lay it down as a principle that 
a mechanic is not a man, which makes you pass your life with 
them as if they were birds, dogs, or plants.” 

“ Josephine ! Josephine !” cried Yseult, clasping her hands 
with a sorrowful surprise, “ what is the matter with you, then, 
that you are so different from yourself to-day ?” 

“ Something horrible is the matter with me !” replied the mar- 
chioness, throwing herself all dishevelled, face downwards, upon 
her bed, and wringing her hands while she shed torrents of tears. 
Yseult was terrified at this despair, which she had perceived for 
some time, from seeing the alteration in Josephine’s features and 
the increasing bitterness of her character. She acted with all 
the goodness of her heart and all the zeal of her intentions ; and, 
clasping her in her arms, she besought her, with tender caresses 
and gentle words, to open her soul to her. 

Certainly the marchioness could do nothing more misplaced, 
more culpable perhaps, than to confide her secret to a chaste 
young girl, for whom love still had mysteries into which the 
imagination was unwilling to penetrate ; but Josephine was no 
longer mistress of herself. She unrolled before her cousin, with 
a kind of exalted cynicism, all the sad romance of her love 
with the Corinthian, and ended with a theory of suicide which 
was not very affected at that moment. 

Yseult listened to this recital in silence and with downcast eyes. 
Several times blushes covered her face ; several times she was 
on the point of arresting Josephine’s effusion ; but each time 
she commanded courage, stifled a sigh, and kept herself firm 
and resolute, like a young sister of charity who sees a surgical 
operation for the first time, and who, ready to faint, surmounts 
her disgust and her horror by the thought of being useful, and 
of solacing a member of the family of Christ. 

To reply to this confession, to pass upon Josephine a sentence 
which would not wound her, or to justify an adulterous love, 


358 


THE COMPANION 


was quite as impossible each as the other to mademoiselle de 
Villepreux. It would have been necessary to reason from prin- 
ciples ; Josephine had none, and could have none, owing to her 
education, to her marriage, to her false and sad position in soci- 
ety. Still Yseult endeavored to make her comprehend that, 
while condemning the violation of her marriage vows, she did 
not despise the choice she had made ; but neither did she ap- 
prove it. From what the Savinienne had confided to her of the 
Gorinthian’s past life, Yseult perceived more and more in that 
young man instincts and a destiny very incompatible with the 
happiness of a woman, whoever she might be. She dared to 
tell all her thoughts to the marchioness, and caused her to reflect 
more than she had hitherto done upon the frightful personality 
which had been insensibly developed in the Corinthian since the 
day when M. de Villepreux’s protection had drawn him from his 
obscurity. 

Josephine began to be calm, and the language of reason had 
prepared her to hear that of morality, when some one knocked 
at the door. Yseult having gone to see who was there, opened 
for her grandfather, addressing to him, as she always did on see- 
ing him, some tender word. 

“ Go, my child,” said the count, “ I wish to be alone with 
your cousin.” 

Yseult obeyed, and M. de Villepreux, seating himself with a 
solemn slowness, thus opened the conversation : — 

“ I have to talk with you, my dear Josephine, about very deli- 
cate matters, and of some the greatest secrets that a woman can 
have. Are you sure that no one can hear us ?” 

“ I believe that is impossible,” said Josephine, rather agitated 
by this preamble and the scrutinizing look which the count fixed 
upon her. 

“ Well,” resumed he, “examine the doors — all the- doors !” 

Josephine rose and went to see if the door of her chamber which 
opened into the corridor, and that which communicated with the 
other rooms of the suite, were well closed ; then she returned 
towards her seat. 

“ You forget one door,” said the count, taking a pinch of 
snuff and looking at her over his spectacles. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


359 


“ But, uncle, I know of no other door,” replied Josephine, be- 
coming pale. 

“ And that of the alcove ? Do you not know that everything 
said here can be heard in the workshop ?” 

“ Mon Dieu !” cried Josephine, trembling, “ how can that be ? 
It leads, I believe, to a passage without issue.” 

“ Are you very sure of that, Josephine ? Do you wish me to 
ask the Corinthian for information respecting it ?” 

Josephine felt herself fainting ; she fell upon her knees, and 
looked at the old man with inexpressible anguish, having no 
strength to articulate a word. 

“ Rise, my niece,” resumed the count with a freezing gentle- 
ness ; “ take your seat and listen to me.” 

Josephine mechanically obeyed, and remained before him, 
pale and motionless as a statue. 

“ In my time, my dear child,” said the count, “ there were 
certain marchionesses who took their lacqueys for lovers. In 
general, they were women much less young, less beautiful, and 
less admired in the world than you are, which, perhaps, rendered 
this fancy a little more explicable with them. It was in the 
time of the Parc-aux-cerfs, against which so much is said now- 
adays, and which the industrial classes continually cast in our 
teeth as an ineffacable disgrace to the nobility.” 

“ Enough, my uncle, in the name of heaven !” said Josephine, 
clasping her hands. “ I understand but too well !” 

“ I have no wish,” said the count, “ to humiliate or wound 
you, my dear Josephine, I intended merely to say (have a little 
courage, I will be brief) that the manners of the age of Louis 
XV., perhaps excusable in their time, are no longer practicable 
at this day. A woman of the world could not now, at break 
of day, say to a clown : ‘Begone, I have done with you!’ for 
there are no clowns now. A groom is a man ; a mechanic is an 
artist ; a peasant is a proprietor, a citizen ; and no woman, were 
she a queen, has the power to persuade a man that he again 
becomes inferior to her on leaving her arms. You have not 
lowered yourself, my dear niece, in choosing for your lover an 
intelligent young man, born in the ranks of the people. If you 
were free to add the gift of your hand to that of your heart, I 


360 


THE COMPANION 


would tell you to do so, if you pleased, and, instead of being the 
marchioness des Frenays, you would be the Corinthienne, with- 
out my feeling shocked or humiliated the least in the world. 
But you are married, my child, and your husband is too 
ill (I have just received a letter from his physician which does 
not give him six months), you are too near your freedom to be 
forgiven for not having known how to wait. There are misfor- 
tunes of a whole life in which the error of a few moments is 
almost inevitable, and finds mercy in the eyes of the world. In 
your position, you would meet with no indulgence. This is 
why I request you to remove the Corinthian from you, with the 
intention of recalling, in order to marry him after a few years’ 
widowhood.” 

This manner of viewing things was so different from what 
Josephine expected of her uncle’s severity, that surprise took 
the place of consternation. She raised her, eyes several times 
to see if he spoke seriously, and lowered them at once after 
having satisfied herself that he did not laugh the least in the 
world. And yet it was only a jeu-d’esprit, a mocking trap, 
the farcical denouement of a sceptical comedy. The old count 
knew very well what would be its effect, and by no means 
feared that his comedy would be turned against him. He knew 
Josephine much better than she knew herse 7 f. He threw up the 
reins, knowing very well that this was the only means of gov- 
erning an impetuous courser. 

Josephine remained mute for some moments, and at last she 
replied : 

“ I thank you, my dear, my generous uncle, for treating me 
with this goodness, when you certainly despise me at the bottom 
of your heart.” 

“ I, despise you, my child ? And why then, I ask you ? If 
you were one of those gallant marchionesses of whom I was just 
speaking, I should treat you with more severity ; for a noble 
mind ought to know how to command the senses. But it is not 
a fault of that nature which you have committed.” 

“ No, uncle!” cried Josephine, to whom the inspiration of 
falsehood returned with the hope of exculpating herself; “I 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


361 


swear to you that it is a foolish love, a romantic dream, and that 
the young man came here — ” 

“ Only to kiss your hand, I don’t doubt it,” replied the count, 
with a smile of such terrible irony, that he at once took away 
from Josephine all pretence of imposing upon him. “ I did not 
ask you that,” added he, resuming his affected seriousness. 
“ There are some complete faults in which the heart plays so 
great a part that they are pitied instead of being condemned. I 
am therefore very well persuaded that you feel a very serious 
affection for the Corinthian, and that, foreseeing M. des Frenays’s 
approaching end, you have promised to unite yourself to him 
some day. Well, my child, if you have made that promise, you 
must keep it ; I repeat to you that I shall make no opposition.” 

“ But, uncle,” said Josephine naively ; “ I have never made 
him any promise !” 

The count pursued, as if he had not heard this answer, which 
nevertheless he had noted very particularly : 

“ And even, if you wish me to tell the Corinthian how I view 
this matter, I will tell him this very day.” 

“ But, uncle, that would be giving him a hope which perhaps 
will not be realized. I neither await nor desire the death of the 
man to whom you have married me ; and it would be a crime, 
as it seems to me, to present such a gloomy chance to the man I 
love, as a dream and a hope of happiness.” 

“ Therefore it is not proper, at this moment, that you should 
do it yourself. I approve of your scruples upon that point. 
But I, who know very well that my dear nephew, the marquis, is 
by no means amiable, and consequently by no means to be re- 
gretted — I, who will never impose upon you a hypocritical grief, 
and who understand very well, in the depths of my soul, the 
desire you have to be free — I must take upon myself the task of 
reassuring the Corinthian respecting the length of your separa- 
tion. This separation is necessary : that which I alone know 
to-day, all the world might discover to-morrow. It will be pain- 
ful to him to leave you : he must be madly in love with you. 
But by making him understand that he must deserve you by this 
sacrifice, and that he will be rewarded for it in two years at most, 
17 


362 


THE COMPANION 


I do not doubt his acceptance of the proposal I shall make to 
him.” 

“ What proposal, uncle ?” asked Josephine frightened. 

“ That of departing at once for Italy, in order to devote himself 
to the study of his art in a country which has preserved its tradi- 
tions, and which will furnish him with the finest models. I will 
give him all the means of there making good studies and rapid 
progress. In two years perhaps he will be able to compete for a 
prize, and then you will have for your husband a distinguished 
pupil for whom your fortune will smooth the road to reputation.” 

“ I am very sure, uncle,” said Josephine, “ that this young man 
does not so understand it. He is proud, disinterested : he would 
not wish to owe his success to the position I should make for him 
in the world.” 

“ He is ambitious,” said the count ; “ whoever feels himself 
an artist must be so, and the thirst for glory will soon overcome 
his scruples.” 

“ But I, uncle, 1 should not wish to serve as an instrument to 
the fortune of an ambitious man. If the Corinthian could accept 
my fortune before he had a name to offer me in exchange, I 
should doubt his love and should no longer share it.” 

“ Well, as time presses, and we must come to some decision, I 
will interrogate him,” said the count rising. “ It is necessary he 
should know that you love him enough to marry him, whatever 
may be his position, and that I would consent, even should he 
remain a simple workman. Is it not true that such is your 
thought ?” 

“ But, uncle,” — said Josephine rising also and retaining the 
count, who pretended to be about to leave her, “ give me time for 
reflection. I have never thought of all this, I have not ! To en- 
gage myself to marry again, when I am not yet a widow, and when 
all I know of marriage is . only its greatest sufferings — it is impos- 
sible ! I must have time to breathe, to ask advice.” 

“ Of whom, my dear niece ? of the Corinthian ?” 

“ Of you, uncle, it is your advice I shall ask !” cried Josephine, 
throwing herself into the count’s arms with a caressing artifice. 

The old lord understood very well that the young marchioness 
besought him to withdraw her from an engagement of which she 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


363 


was afraid, and that she only asked for a little assistance to break 
off a connexion of which she was ashamed. Josephine had loved 
the Corinthian, but she was vain : one does not renounce the great 
world when one has sacrificed one’s self to be admitted to it. One 
loves better to shine in it sometimes, even if suffering there inces- 
santly, rather than to be banished from it and not to be jible ever 
to enter it again. 

The count, laughing inwardly at the success of his stratagem, 
left her, promising that he would reflect upon the explanation he 
should have with the Corinthian, and giving her until evening to 
reflect upon it herself. 

The marchioness ran to find Yseult, and related to her word for 
word all that the count had just said. Yseult listened with strong 
emotion. Her face was lighted with a strange joy ; and the mar- 
chioness, on finishing her recital, saw with surprise that tears of 
enthusiasm bathed her cousin’s cheeks. 

“ Well,” said she to her, “ what is the matter with you, and 
what do you think of all this ?” 

“ O my dear, my noble grandfather !” cried Yseult, raising her 
hands and eyes towards heaven ; “ I was quite sure of it, I was 
right in my confidence in him ! I knew very well that, when 
opportunity offered, his actions would correspond with his words ! 
Oh ! yes, yes, Josephine, you must marry the Corinthian.” 

“ But I don’t understand you, Yseult : you told me a little while 
ago that he would never make me happy, that I must break with 
him ; and now you advise me to engage myself to him for all 
my days.” 

“ I thought it my duty to speak to you in that manner and to 
show you the defects of your lover in order to cure you of a love 
which seemed to me culpable. But my father has had the feeling 
of a more elevated morality ; he understands true morality. He 
has advised you again to become faithful to your husband, at the 
approach of that solemn hour, after which you will be free, and 
will be able to take the oath of a more legitimate and more happy 
love.” 

“ So you yourself advise me to marry the Corinthian ! And 
his ambition, and his jealousy, and his outrages, from which I have 
suffered so much, and his love for the Savinienne, which perhaps 


364 


THE COMPANION 


is not yet extinct ! You forget that this very night I drove him 
away in a fit of hatred and irrepressible anger.” 

“ He will return and ask your forgiveness for his misconduct, 
and you will correct him of his faults by remedying his sufferings, 
by proving your sincerity by your promises — ” 

“ This is madness l” cried the marchioness, driven to extremity. 
“ Either you are playing a comedy to try me, both your father and 
yourself, or you are under the dominion of I know not what dream 
of romantic republicanism to which you wish to sacrifice me. I 
should like to see what my uncle would say if you wished to 
marry Pierre Huguenin, and what you yourself would say if any 
one should advise you to do so !” 

Yseult smiled, and without answering, deposited a long kiss 
upon her cousin’s forehead. Her face had a sublime expression. 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


305 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

On the evening of that day already so full of emotions, Pierre and 
the Corinthian were working by lamp-light, themselves agita- 
ted in a kind of fever. Amaury, tired of his undertaking, was 
hurrying to finish his last sculptured figures, and hoped to com- 
mence upon the easier ornaments in which Pierre was to assist 
him. The simple joiner’s work had not gone forward so quickly 
by any means. There were still many disjointed pannels, many 
unfinished mouldings. But father Huguenin had been obliged to 
take patience ; for his son wished to finish, before all, the staircase 
of the gallery, which he had reserved for himself as the most im- 
portant and most delicate piece. Pierre did not say that, in the 
secret of his soul, he cherished this part of the workshop which 
brought him near to the cabinet of the turret and to the gallery, 
where he was sometimes only separated from Yseult by the study 
door, often half open. 

Retrenched in the extremity of the workshop, Pierre had 
worked for some time without relaxation. Not only did he wish 
that his staircase should be conformable to all the laws of science, 
but he also wished to make of it a work of art. He thought of 
giving it a style, a character, a movement not only easy and sure, 
but also bold and picturesque. It was not necessary that it should 
be the coquettish staircase of a restaurant, or of a fashionable store, 
but indeed the austere and rich staircase of an old manor-house, 
like those which are seen in the bottom of Rembrandt’s interiors, 
where the doubtful and glancing light ascends and diminishes with 
so much art and depth. The wooden balustrade, wrought in open 
work, and the ornaments of the pendants, must also be of a par- 
ticular choice. Pierre had the good sense and the good taste to 
borrow the design of these parts from the ornaments of the old 
wainscotting. He adapted them to the form and dimensions of 
his staircase, and there his acquaintance with geometry became 


366 


THE COMPANION 


of the greatest use to him. It was the work of an architect, a 
decorator and a sculptor, at the same time. Pierre was severe 
towards himself. He said to himself that this would perhaps be 
the only opportunity he should have in his life to unite seriously 
the conditions of the useful with those of the beautiful, and he 
wished to leave in this monument, where generations of skilful 
workmen had executed such beautiful things, a trace of his life, 
of himself, a conscientious workman, a delicate and noble artist. 

It was ten o’clock in the evening, and he was at last giving the 
finishing stroke to his work. He had adjusted his well balanced 
steps upon an elegant palm-tree, fragile to appearance, solid in 
reality. The balustrade was placed ; and, by the light of the 
lamp, it reflected upon the wall its light scrolls and its strong 
supports. Pierre, on his knees upon the last step, was carefully 
planning off the slightest roughness ; his forehead was bathed in 
sweat, and his eyes shone with a modest and legitimate joy. The 
Corinthian was mounted upon a ladder, at some distance, and was 
still placing some cherubims in their niches. He worked with 
the same activity, but not with the same pleasure as his friend. 
There was in his ardor as it were a kind of rage, and every in- 
stant he cried out as he threw his chisel upon the tiles : “ cursed 
puppets ! when shall I get through with you !” Then he turned 
his eyes from time to time to that white mark which had remain- 
ed upon the pannel of the secret passage, and for which he could 
not account. 

“ As for me, I have finished !” cried Pierre suddenly, seating 
himself upon the step which joined the staircase to the gallery ; 
“and I am almost sorry for it,” added he wiping his forehead : 
“ I have never worked upon any thing with so much love and 
zeal.” 

“ I believe so indeed,” replied the Corinthian with bitterness ; 

‘ you work for some one who is worth the trouble.” 

“ I work for art,” said Pierre. 

“ No,” quickly replied the Corinthian, “ you work for her whom 
you love.” 

“ Be silent, be silent,” cried Pierre frightened, pointing at the 
door of the study. 

“ Bah ! I know that they are taking tea at this hour !” replied 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


367 


the Corinthian. “ I know every one of their habits, point for 
point. At this moment, mademoiselle de Villepreux is arranging 
her porcelain cups, while she talks politics or philosophy with her 
father, and the marchioness is yawning as she looks in the glass 
to see if her hair is well dressed. It is just as if 1 saw her.” 

“ No matter, don’t speak so loud, I beseech you.” 

“I will speak as low as you please, Pierre,” said the Corin- 
thian, coming to take a seat by the side of his friend ; “ but I 
must talk, you see, my head is bursting. Do you know that 
your staircase is superb ? You have talent, Pierre ; you are a 
born architect, as [ am a born sculptor, and it seems to me there 
is as much glory in one art as in the other. Have you never 
had any ambition, you also ?” 

“ You see very well that I have, since I have taken such pains 
to make this staircase.” 

“ And now your ambition is satisfied ?” 

“ For to-day ; to-morrow I shall begin on the bookcase.” 

“ And do you intend to make staircases and presses all your 
days ?” 

“ What could I do better ? I don’t know how to make any- 
thing else.” 

“But you can do everything you wish, Pierre, and you don’t 
wish to remain a joiner, I hope.” 

“ My dear Corinthian, I do intend to remain a joiner. It is 
just that you should become a sculptor, that you should study 
Michael Angelo and Donatello. You are led to brilliant works 
by a peculiar organization, which imposes upon you the duty of 
seeking after the beautiful in its most elevated and most poetical 
expression. The disgust with which works of mere utility in- 
spire you is perhaps a warning from Providence which reserves 
you for a higher destiny. But as for me, I love the labor of the 
hands ; and, provided my labor is of some use, I do not regret it. 
My intelligence does not lead me to works of art, as you under- 
stand them ; I am of the people, I feel myself a workman in all 
my pores. A secret voice, far from calling me into the tumult 
of the world, murmurs without ceasing in my ear that I am 
attached to the glebe of labor, and that perhaps it is my duty to 
die there.” 


36S 


THE COMPANION 


“ But this is an absurdity ! Pierre, you depreciate and calumni- 
ate yourself ; you are not made to remain a machine and to sweat 
like a slave. Is not the manner in which the rich exploit the 
labor of the people an iniquity ? You yourself have said so a 
hundred times.” 

“ Yes, in principle I hate that exploiting ; but in fact I submit 
myself to it.” 

“ This is an inconsistency, Pierre, it is cowardice ! If every 
one says the same, things will never change.” 

“ Dear Corinthian, things will change ! God is too just to 
abandon humanity, and humanity is too great to abandon itself. 
It is impossible for me to feel in my mind what justice is, without 
justice being possible. I should not cherish' equality if equality 
were not to be realized. For I am not mad, Amaury, I feel that 
I am very calm ; I am certain that I am very wise at this mo- 
ment, and yet I believe that the rich will not always exploit the 
poor.” 

“ And yet you make it a duty to remain poor ?” 

“ Yes, being unwilling to become rich at any rate.” 

“ And you do not hate the rich ?” 

“ No, because it is man’s instinct to fly from poverty.” 

“ Explain that to me then.” 

“ That is easy. It is true, is it not, that at this day, a poor 
man can become rich by means of intelligence?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Is it certain that all intelligent poor men can become rich ?” 

“ I do not know. There are so many of those poor men, that 
perhaps there would not be enough to enrich them all.” 

“ That is very certain, Amaury ; do we not every day see 
men of sense and talent who die of starvation ?” 

“ There are many such. It is not enough to have genius, one 
must also have good luck.” 

“ That is to say, skill, a knowledge of the world, ambition, 
boldness. And the surest way still is to have no conscience.” 

“ That is possible,” said the Corinthian with a sigh ; “ God 
knows if I shall be able to preserve mine, and if it will not be 
necessary to abjure it or fail.” 

“ I hope that God will watch over you, my child. But for 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


369 


me, do you see, I ought not to risk myself. I have not sufficient 
genius for the voice of destiny to command me to enter into this 
dangerous struggle with men. I see that the greater part of 
those who abandon the hard obscurity of the hireling to become 
happy and free, lose their modest virtues, and can only make 
their way through the obstacles, by leaving at every effort a little 
faith, at every triumph a little charity. This rivalry of intelli- 
gent beings is a horrible war ; one cannot succeed except on con- 
dition of crushing another. Society is like a regiment in which 
the lieutenant, on the day of battle, is pleased to see the fall of his 
captain whose place he is to fill. Well, since the world is thus 
arranged, since the most liberal and the most advanced minds 
have as yet found no other maxim than this : ‘ Destroy each 
other in order to make room for yourselves I do not wish to de- 
stroy any one. Our personal ambition too often sanctions that 
abominable principle which is called competition, emulation, and 
which I for my part, call robbery and murder. I love the peo- 
ple too much to accept that happy destiny which is offered to one 
among a thousand of us by letting the others suffer. The peo- 
ple, blind and resigned, allow matters to take their course ; they 
admire those who succeed ; and he who does not succeed becomes 
exasperated in hatred, or brutified in discouragement. In a 
word, this principle of rivalry makes only tyrants and exploiters, 
or slaves and bandits. I wish to be neither the one nor the other. 
I will remain poor in fact, poor in principle ; and I shall, perhaps, 
die upon the straw, but protesting against that social science 
which does not place all men in a condition to have a bed.” 

“ I understand you, my noble Pierre, you act like the sailor 
who rather prefers to perish with the crew than to save himself 
in a small boat with some privileged persons. But you forget 
that those privileged ones will always be there to leap into the 
boat, and that heaven will not come to the assistance of the sink- 
ing ship. I admire your virtue, Pierre ; but if you will allow 
me to tell you, it seems to me so unnatural, so exaggerated, that 
I very much fear it may be a fit of enthusiasm which you will 
repent by and by.” 

“ Why have you such an idea V 9 

“ Because it seems to me you were not thus six months ago.” 

17 * 


370 


THE COMPANION 


“ That is true ; I was then as you are now ; I suffered, I mur- 
mured ; I felt a disgust for our condition and you did not. Now 
I have no longer any ambition, and it is you who have it ; we 
have changed places.” 

“ And which of us is right ?” 

“ Both of us, perhaps. You are the man of the society of to- 
day ; I am, perhaps, the man of the future !” 

“ And, in the meanwhile, you do not wish to live ! for it is not 
living to live in desire and in expectation.” 

“ Say in faith, and in hope !” 

“ Pierre, it is mademoiselle de Villepreux who has put these 
crazy theories into your head. They are very easy to those 
people. They are rich and powerful ; they enjoy everything, 
and they advise us to live on nothing.” 

“ Let mademoiselle de Villepreux alone,” replied Pierre. “ I 
do not see what she has to do with what we were talking about.” 

“ Pierre,” said Amaury, earnestly, “ I have told you all my 
secrets, and you have never told me yours. Do you believe I 
cannot read your heart ?” 

“ Let me alone, Amaury, do not make me suffer uselessly ; I 
respect, I revere mademoiselle de Villepreux, that is certain. 
There is no secret in that.” 

“ You respect her, you revere her — and you love her !” 

“ Yes, I love her,” replied Pierre, shuddering. “ I love her as 
the Savinienne loves you.” 

“ You love her as I love the marchioness !” 

“ Oh ! no, no, Amaury, that is not true. I do not love her in 
that manner !” 

“You love her a thousand times more !” 

“ I am not in love with her, no ! heaven is my witness — ” 

“ You do not dare to finish. Well, it is possible that you may 
not be in love with her, I do not wish you such a misfortune ; 
but you adore her, and you esteem yourself happy at being the 
conquered and chained slave of that Roman lady — ” 

This conversation was interrupted by a domestic who came 
from the park side, to say to the Corinthian that his master desired 
to speak with him. The Corinthian departed in consequence of 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


371 


this order, very far from imagining the importance of the inter- 
view that was requested of him. 

Pierre remained some moments absorbed and troubled by the 
bold insinuations which his friend had just uttered. Then, think- 
ing that the hour for retiring had struck in the chateau, and that 
perhaps mademoiselle de Villepreux might descend to her study, 
as was often the case between eleven o’clock and midnight, he 
began to pick up and gather together his tools in order to go, 
faithful to the respect he had sworn to her in his soul. But, at 
the moment when he stooped to take up the leathern sack in 
which were his instruments of labor, he felt a hand placed gently 
on his shoulder, and, raising his head, he saw mademoiselle de 
Villepreux, radiant with a beauty she had never possessed before 
that day. All her soul was in her eyes, and that power which 
she always compressed in the depths of her soul, shone in her at 
that hour, without her thinking to repress it. It was as if a 
divine transfiguration had taken place in her whole being. Pierre 
had often seen her exalted, but always somewhat mysterious, and, 
in all that referred to their friendship, expressing herself by 
enigmas or half sentences. He saw her at this moment like a 
pythoness ready to utter her oracles, and, himself transported 
with a confidence and an unknown strength, for the first time in 
his life he took Yseult’s hand in his own. 

“ My staircase is finished,” said he to her ; “ it is you who 
will first place your hand upon this balustrade.” 

“ Do not speak so loud, Pierre,” said she to him. “ For the 
first and the last time in my life, I have a secret to tell you ; a 
secret which will not be one to-morrow. Come !” 

She drew him into her study, the door of which she closed 
again with care, then she spoke thus : 

“ Pierre, I do not ask you, as the Corinthian did just now, if 
you are in love with me. Between us two, the word appears 
insufficient and puerile. I am not beautiful, everybody knows 
that ; I do not know if you are beautiful, though everybody says it. 
I have never sought in your eyes for anything but your soul, and 
moral beauty is the only one that can fascinate me. But I now 
ask you, before God, who sees and hears us, if you love me as I 
love you.” 


372 


THE COMPANION 


Pierre became pale, his teeth closed, he could not answer. 

“Do not leave me in uncertainty,” resumed Yseult. “It is 
very important for me not to deceive myself respecting the feel- 
ing I inspire in you ; for I am on the brink of that decisive crisis 
in my life which I caused you to foresee here, one evening when 
I was playing at carbonarism with you, thinking that I had some- 
thing to teach you, and not having yet received from you the 
initiation into true equality which you have since given, me. 
Listen, Pierre, many things of which you are still ignorant have 
taken place to-day in my family. My cousin has confided 
to me a secret which you have possessed for a long time. My 
father, by what chance I know not, has discovered that secret, 
and has pronounced a decision which I allow you to guess.” 

Pierre could not speak. Yseult saw his anguish, and con- 
tinued : 

“ My father’s decision has been conformable to the admirable 
principles in which he has educated me, and which I have always 
heard him profess. He has advised madame des Frenays, whose 
husband is dying, to marry the Corinthian as soon as she is free ; 
and, at this moment, he is persuading the Corinthian to go away, 
in order to return here in two years. In two years, Pierre, your 
friend will be my cousin, and my father’s nephew. You see 
that, if you love me, if you esteem me, if you judge me worthy 
to become your wife, as on my side I love you, respect you, and 
venerate you, I shall go and find my grandfather, in order to ask 
his consent to our marriage. If I did not feel a certainty of suc- 
ceeding, I should never have told you what I now tell you in all 
the calmness of my mind, and with the full liberty of my con- 
science.” 

Pierre fell on his knees and wished to answer ; but that love, 
so long repressed, would have burst forth with too much violence. 
He could not find expressions ; torrents of tears flowed in silence 
over his cheeks. 

“ Pierre,” said she to him, “ you have not strength enough 
then to say a single word to me 1 This is what I feared ; you 
do not feel confidence : you think that I am dreaming, that I pro- 
pose to you what is impossible. You thank me on your knees, 
as if I were doing’ a great action in loving you. Oh, mon Dieu ! 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


373 


nothing is more simple ; and if you were to see me choose a 
great lord, then you ought to be astonished, and think I had lost 
my reason. Think that 1 have been nourished in the spirit which 
now animates me ever since I began to breathe and to live : think 
that my first readings, my first impressions, my first thoughts 
have led me to what I am this day doing. From the day on 
which I could reason respecting my future destiny, I resolved to 
marry a man of the people in order to belong to the people, as 
those minds disposed to Christianity formerly procured themselves 
to be baptized in order that they might say they were Christians. 
I have found in you the only just man I have ever met, after my 
grandfather ; I have discovered in you not only a complete sym- 
pathy with all my ideas and feelings, but also a superiority in 
understanding and virtue, which has given light to my good 
instincts, and enthusiasm to my convictions. You have freed me 
from some errors ; you have cured me of many uncertainties : 
in a word, you have taught me justice, and you have given me 
faith. Therefore you must not be astonished, unless you con- 
sider me too frivolous, and too weak to execute what I have con- 
ceived.” 

Pierre was a prey to a real delirium. He looked at her and 
did not even dare touch with his lips the end of her girdle, so 
much did she appear to him elevated and sanctified by faith. 

“ I see that you cannot speak,” said she to him. “ I am about 
to go to my father. If you do not consent, make only a sign, a 
gesture, and I will wait until you have changed your opinion.” 

Pierre seized, in a kind of delirium, the poignard which Yseult 
had wished to give him on the day of Achille Lefort’s departure, 
and which was there upon the table. 

“ What do you wish to do ?” said she to him, snatching it from 
his hands. 

“ Kill myself,” replied he, in a smothered voice, “ for this is a 
dream and I would wish to wake in another world.” 

“ I see that you love me,” said Yseult smiling ; “ for you no 
longer fear to touch this weapon which cuts friendship .” 

“ Were it to cut my heart in pieces,” replied Pierre, “it could 
not take from it the love I have for you.” 

“ If this be so,” said Yseult animated with a holy joy, and her 


374 


THE COMPANION 


cheeks covered with a modest blush, “ as I know of but one way 
to wish for things, which is to put them at once in execution, I 
shall go to my father, and speak to him of you. Till to-morrow, 
Pierre, for this is a serious matter, and perhaps my father will 
wish to take the night to reflect upon it.” 

“ To-morrow, to-morrow ?” cried Pierre quite frightened, “ will 
to-morrow ever come ? How shall I endure till to-morrow this 
joy and this fear ? No, no, do not speak yet to your father ; let 
me live until to-morrow with the sole thought of your goodness 
for me” (Pierre did not dare to say love). “ I do not yet com- 
prehend the future of which you speak to me : it seems to me 
that there is some mystery there, and I think of it with a kind of 
fear — yes, my heart is oppressed, and my happiness is so great 
that it resembles sadness. It is an eternal, sorrowful, intoxicat- 
ing idea. It is as if you were about to kill yourself for me. Let 
me think of it, you see that I am not in my right senses. I can- 
not fix my mind, in the midst of this whirlpool which you raise 
in me, except upon one single idea : it is that you love me — you, 
you ! ah ! my God, you ! — I am loved by you ! Can that be 
possible ? Am I in a fever ? Am I not in a delirium ?” 

“ I fear your reflections, Pierre, and I do not wish to give you 
time to make them. I have made them in your place, and the 
determination I have taken has been sufficiently matured for me 
to foresee all its consequences ; they are such that I fear none of 
them. It does not require a great deal of courage, believe me, to 
brave the prejudices of the world, when we act, not from impulse, 
but from faith ; the world is very weak and very small before 
such resolutions. And as to you, I know well what scruples you 
will have when you remember that I am rich and that you are 
not so. I know how I shall answer you ; I have foreseen all 
your objections, and I am sure of overcoming them : for your 
pride is dearer to me than to yourself, and if I thought I was 
inducing you to act contrary to the principles of your conscience, 
I should rather die.” 

They conversed a long while thus. Pierre listened to her eagerly 
and hardly answered her. In this first trouble of an unexpected 
and immense joy, he could not clearly appreciate the thought of 
a marriage so contrary to the ideas and the customs of the social 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


375 


hierarchy. He reserved himself to try this project in the alem- 
bic of his conscience. But the courage and the enthusiasm with 
which the believing Yseult threw herself entirely into it pene- 
trated him with love, with gratitude, and admiration. They had 
so many things to say to each other, to recall, to go over together 
in their memory, that they could not tear themselves from this 
interview. This return upon their repressed love, this new ex- 
planation of the smallest mysteries, of the smallest emotions of 
the past, was full of delights ; and they felt themselves live over 
a second time the days they had already lived. Only that first 
life had been the reality, the second was the ideal ; and this 
remembrance resumed together, and embellished by all the 
revelations which had been wanting to the past, was something 
like the feeling that would be experienced in a happy life by a 
soul which remembered it had already lived in a less pleasant 
condition, with all the desires that were now fully satisfied. 

While they thus conversed and forgot the hour, transported as 
they were into another sphere, the count de Villepreux conferred 
with the Corinthian. Until this moment the marchioness, agitated, 
the victim of a thousand combats, was restrained by shame from 
confessing to her uncle that this serious passion which he mali- 
ciously attributed to her was only a surprise of the senses in the 
midst of a fancy of the mind, a romance begun with the flighti- 
ness of a school girl, sustained in the midst of the deliriums of a 
love without restraint and without object, ready to be dissolved 
before the fear of blame and the requirements of vanity. The 
Corinthian, presenting himself with a celebrated name and titles 
to consideration already acquired, would perhaps have carried 
the day against a gentleman without reputation and without 
talent. But the Corinthian, journeyman joiner, a child of genius 
it is true, and on the eve of becoming a student at Rome, but un- 
known, but uncertain of his future destiny, incapable perhaps of 
profiting by too long delayed studies and of realizing the hopes 
which had been conceived of him — this was a die in the dice-box 
of that game of chance which is called society, and Josephine did 
not feel faith and courage enough to stake upon the cast. She 
was therefore very much frightened by the course which her 
uncle hypocritically suggested to her ; and, at the moment when 


376 


THE COMPANION 


he wished to send for Amaury, she followed him to his study and 
besought him first to listen to her. She pretended to have dis- 
covered an intrigue between the Savinienne and the Corinthian, 
and declared herself so well cured of her love that she renounced 
it and prayed her uncle to assist her to break from it entirely. 
This was only half a lie. The discovery she had made of that past 
love was what most depoetized Amaury in her eyes. She was 
humiliated at being the successor of a tavern-keeper’s wife ; and 
the humble origin of her lover appeared to her more intolerable 
since she there saw him bound by a love at which he would not 
consent to blush, and the memory of which he was not mean 
enough to abjure. 

The count received Josephine to mercy. He ceased to play 
a comedy, and said the severest things to her, in order that she 
might not retrace her steps, and that thenceforward she should 
take her lovers somewhat less low. “ This must enlighten you 
a little, I imagine,” said he to her, “ and prove to you that, if it 
is our duty to love and to honor the people in principle, we must 
not be in a hurry to give to that sympathy so experimental an 
application as you have recently done to your cost. The people 
are great and beautiful as a mass ; they are mean and miserable 
as individuals : they will require to pass successively through all 
the phases of the social hierarchy, in order to purify themselves, 
to become free from the slime out of which they have issued, and 
to acquire, with great labor and great merit, that distinction 
which can struggle to advantage at this day with that of birth, 
and which, some day perhaps, must radically triumph. You 
have thought you could effect, with your beautiful eyes, the 
transformation which twenty years of labor and struggles will 
produce, or will not produce, in this young boy. He does not 
understand you, and he returns with pleasure to his gossip 
Savinienne. This proves to you yet again that there is a greater 
distance between the popular pavement and the summits of true 
merit and real distinction, than between the bench of a joiner 
and the bed of a marchioness.” 

Josephine underwent this cynical and biting reprimand with a 
blind submission. Her thought rose no higher than the count’s 
narrow liberalism. She did not perceive any inconsistency be- 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


377 


tween his conduct and his words ; all appeared to her articles 
of faith. She swallowed her humiliation with sorrow, but with- 
out rebellion, and received her pardon on her knees, and with 
gratitude. She was of that race upon which the caste of nobles, 
though hated and turned to ridicule, still exercises a sovereign 
influence. 

The count at first tried to treat the Corinthian as a little boy, 
and to frighten him. On seeing him so genteel , he had never 
imagined the pride and passion of his character. When he saw 
him become rebellious, declare that he was free, that he did not 
obey any one, that he might indeed be driven from the workshop 
and the chateau, but not from the country or the village, that he 
did not recognise in the count any authority over the marchioness 
or himself, the skilful old man was compelled to recognise that 
he had formed a school, and that neither terror of the stick, nor 
fear of losing his protection and benefits, would conquer the 
Corinthian’s pride. He therefore changed his tactics, tried him 
with gentleness, reasoned with him in a fatherly manner, dis- 
closed to him all Josephine’s weakness and vanity, and advised 
him to marry the Savinienne, or to go and study statuary in 
Italy. The Corinthian had upon his heart the threats that had 
just been made to him ; he avenged himself for them by leaving 
M. de Villepreux’s study without making any promise. But 
night brings counsel, and the idea of seeing Italy agitated him 
with so strong a desire, that he resolved to enter into a compro- 
mise the next day. The count was very easy on that score ; at 
the simple name of Rome, he had seen the flame of ambition 
sparkle in the eyes of the young artist, and he was quite sure 
that no love would prove an obstacle to his career. 

The old count, rather fatigued with his day, was about to 
retire, when his grandson Raoul came in his turn to ask for a 
moment’s audience. He referred to the revelations which Isidore 
had made to him respecting Yseult, and the reports occasioned 
bv her intimacy with the Savinienne and with Pierre Huguenin. 
This communication, if it had been made the day before to M. 
de Villepreux, would not perhaps have seemed to him worthy a 
moment’s reflection, especially as Raoul introduced into it a little 
malice, by showing to his grandfather the dangers and incon- 


378 


THE COMPANION 


veniences of his republicanism. But the marchioness’s history- 
disposed the count to pay great attention to what Raoul said. 
He questioned him a great deal, and did not impose silence on 
him when the young royalist dandy said to him, lisping and 
mincing like the greater part of his fellows (abortions of a 
decayed strength who have not even enough left to speak intelli- 
gibly) : “ You see, my father, all this will end with some scandal 
if you don’t put it to rights. Yseult has a crazy head ; you 
have spoiled her ; it is no longer time to resume your authority 
over her. But she is old enough to be married ; you must place 
her under the protection of a younger man, who will, at the 
same time, be the devoted support of your old age. This can 
soon be done if you are willing. Amedee is an excellent match 
for her. He is young, elegant, well educated, handsome, rich, 
well born. He is in love with her, or on the point of becoming 
so. The countess, his sister, is still ready to make the first 
advances, although Yseult has been quite sulky with her. If 
you really wish it, Yseult will change her notions ; for, if she 
is obstinate in small things, she is, I believe, reasonable in great 
ones. Besides, she loves you and desires to please you — ” 

“We will talk of this again,” said the count. “ Leave me, I 
wish first to speak with her about that Savinienne.” 

Raoul retired, and the count descended to the turret study. 
It was one o’clock in the morning. He there found his daughter 
tete-a-tete with Pierre Huguenin. Then all his prudence aban- 
doned him ; and the anger to which he was very subject over- 
coming him, he expressed himself in very unmeasured terms 
respecting the impropriety of this intimacy. Pierre was so 
much agitated that he did not think of obeying the violent orders 
given him by the old count to retire ; he feared the effects of the 
paternal anger on Yseult, but he had nothing to say to exculpate 
himself. Yseult, terrified for a moment, soon overcame the 
horrible discomfort of this state of things by the whole force of 
her character. Instead of being secretly irritated by the harsh 
words of her grandfather, she threw her arms round his neck, 
and told him, caressing his white hair, that she was happy at 
being discovered in this tete-^-tete, as it would shorten any 
long preambles. Then, taking Pierre by the hand, she led him 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


379 


to her grandfather, and, kneeling before him : “ My father,” 
said she, in a penetrated but firm voice, “ you have told me a 
thousand times that you had confidence enough in my reason 
and my dignity to permit me to make choice of a husband my- 
self. When various marriages of interest and ambition have 
been proposed to me, you approved my refusals, and you have 
told me that you would prefer to see me united to an honest 
workman rather than to one of those insolent and mean nobles 
who calumniate your political character, and humble themselves 
before your money. Finally, you have this day said to my 
cousin things which I have caused to be repeated to me several 
times, in order to be very sure that I would not displease you by 
speaking to you as I have done. This is the man whom I will 
take for my husband, if you are willing to bless and ratify my 
choice.” 

Yseult was compelled to interrupt herself. Surprise, indigna- 
tion, vexation, and especially, perhaps, the confusion of not hav- 
ing any answer to make, had produced such a revolution in the 
old count, that he suddenly felt his strength forsake him and the 
blood murmur in his ears. He fell back upon a sofa, and be- 
came alternately scarlet and pale as death. Yseult, seeing him 
faint, uttered a cry and embraced his knees. “ Unhappy girl !” 
said the old man with an effort, “ you kill your father !” And 
he lost all consciousness. 


380 


THE COMPANION 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

The count had a cerebral congestion, which was at first supposed 
to be a serious attack of apoplexy, and which spread alarm 
through the chateau. But at the first drops of blood which were 
taken from him, he felt himself relieved, and extended his hand 
to his grand-daughter, who, paler and more ill than he, was kneel- 
ing, half dead, beside his bed. Weakened in body and mind, the 
old man did not think of recurring to the strange declaration 
which Yseult had made to him. He fell asleep quite peacefully 
towards day-break; and Yseult, broken with fatigue, still kneel- 
ing by his side, slept with her face resting upon the bed and her 
knees bent upon a cushion. 

What Pierre Huguenin suffered that night surpassed all he had 
ever suffered in his life. At first he had assisted Yseult to carry 
her father to his chamber and to call for help ; but when the phy- 
sician had caused every one to retire excepting mademoiselle 
Yseult and her brother — when it was necessary for him to leave 
the interior of the chateau, where his presence, at that advanced 
hour, was no longer explicable nor possible, he became a victim 
to all the anguish of anxiety and terror. He thought of all that 
Yseult must suffer ; he thought that the count would die ; and he 
gave himself up to horrible remorse, as if he had been guilty of 
some crime. He wandered until daylight in the park, returning 
from hour to hour to question the Savinienne, who had hastened 
to Yseult, and who watched in the next chamber. From time to 
time she secretly descended to the garden to tranquillize her 
friend. As soon as he knew that the count was entirely out of 
danger, and that the accident would have no serious results, he 
buried himself anew in the park, and went to dream in the same 
place where he had dreamed so much already, and which had 
witnessed the chaste joys of his love. At first, entirely absorbed 
by his situation, he thought only of the chances of eternal union 
or of absolute separation, which he foresaw on the one side from 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


38 . 


the firm will of the young girl, on the other from the anger and 
despair of the old count. All remembrance of the obstacles he 
must find in his own conscience was effaced by the sudden and 
ineffable joy of that partaken love. He said to himself that 
Yseult would overcome all those which her family could inter- 
pose, and he abandoned himself to her with a religious confidence. 
Besides, his blood boiled in his veins and obscured all his ideas ; 
his heart beat so violently at the remembrance of the celestial 
words which still vibrated in his ears, that he was obliged at 
every step to stop and sit down in order not to suffocate. The 
night was dark and rainy. He walked in the wet sand and in 
the cold grass without perceiving anything. The great gusts of 
autumn raised around him whirlwinds of dried leaves. This fu- 
rious wind and this agitated nature were in harmony with the 
stormy and confused condition of his soul. 

But when day appeared, Pierre again found himself at the 
identical spot where, four months before, at the same hour, he 
had raised the problem of riches in his mind with incredible suf- 
ferings and horrible uncertainties. Since that day, so memora- 
ble in his life in other respects, Pierre had constantly kept his 
mind turned towards that problem ; and, if he had had great in- 
stincts, if immovable principles of truth had crossed the chaos of 
his thought, if he had found his rule of conduct and fixed his re- 
lations with present society, he was none the less certain that the 
general problem still remained as terrible and as mysterious to 
him as to the strongest men of his epoch. Pierre was to pass 
through many differing beliefs, many incomplete systems, to con- 
demn many errors, and to share many political and philanthro- 
pical intoxications before receiving that more fruitful and more cer- 
tain light which begins to illumine the vast horizon of the people. 

Restored, in the midst of his joy and the intoxication of his 
love, to the feeling of that austere duty, which he had imposed 
upon himself, of seeking for truth and justice, he was terrified by 
those riches which seemed to offer themselves to him, and to in- 
vite him to the enjoyments of the privileged classes. Whatever 
might be the count’s opposition to the projects of his grand-daugh- 
ter, Pierre could marry her. The count was old, Yseult strong 
and faithful. Pierre had therefore only to say a word, to accept 


382 


THE COMPANION 


an oath ; and these estates, this chateau, and this beautiful park, 
which had first given him the idea of nature conquered and ideal- 
ized by the hand of man, all these might be his. He could hence- 
forth close his heart to the suffering of pity, go to sleep for forty 
or fifty years in the life of the age, forget the divine problem, 
profit by the law which protects and almost sanctifies the exclu- 
sive happiness of certain men. But, why could he not accept 
that happiness without abjuring his principles? could he not, 
then, follow the wave of society ? be, like Amaury, the man of 
his time, the happy parvenu, the conquering artist, or the im- 
promptu rich man, without abandoning the search after the ideal ? 
Could he not use his riches for the solution of the problem, ex- 
tend his benefits to a certain number of men, attempt various 
kinds of farming advantageous to the proletary cultivator, found 
hospitals, schools ? These noble dreams passed through his 
thoughts. Yseult, most assuredly, instead of hindering him, 
would second him with all her will, and all her virtue. Doubt- 
less these were the great arguments which she had in reserve to 
conquer his disinterestedness and his pride. 

But Pierre, on thinking of the duties which riches would impose 
on a man as religious as himself, was terrified at his ignorance. 
He asked himself if he had anything more than good intentions, 
and if his education had placed him in a condition to develope his 
principles and apply them. He asked what he would do that was 
good, wise, and really useful, on the day when he should enter 
into possession of the fortune, and he found in himself only un- 
certainty and perplexity. His nature, all mystical, all inclined 
to meditative contemplation, excluded that practical activity, that 
special ability, that skill, that arithmetic in a word, which would 
be necessary, in the most eminent degree, to a generous man, in 
order to practise good in a society given up to evil. He sounded 
his intelligence without false humility, but without vain com- 
plaisance, and without permitting the thirst for happiness to mis- 
lead him. He felt and recognised that he was not that man ; 
that the principle would always absorb him completely, and that 
the consequences would escape him. Pierre was twenty-one 
years old, and knowing all that the most enlightened man of his 
time could know in the moral order, he knew nothing in things 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE, 


383 


of mere intellect. He felt himself ten years too old to remodel 
his education, and he had not in those things that intuition which 
supplies the want of culture. He turned his thoughts to all the 
elements of corruption which, in riches, might deflower his ideal 
and falsify his good intentions before light had come to him. He 
said to himself that perhaps, at his age, the count de Villepreux, 
that man who had such beautiful theories and such miserable ap- 
plications, had been like him penetrated with the love of justice. 
He had a horror of becoming rich, because he feared to love 
riches for themselves and not to know how to use them. 

I do not give his conclusions to you as the last decisions of wis- 
dom, friend reader. If the youth of Pierre Huguenin, the com- 
panion of the tour of France, has interested you some little, his 
manhood, with which I intend to entertain you in another romance, 
will interest you still more, I hope ; and you will see that several 
times in his succeeding years he doubted of what he had done, 
and conscientiously interrogated himself. But, at the age in 
which I show him to you, his fervent soul could only admit the 
poetical and quasi-Christian renunciation of the joys of the earth. 
He had lived upon this ; he had thence derived his virtue, his 
poetry, and his love : he could not abjure it in a moment. He 
thirsted to do some great thing ; it presented itself, he did not he- 
sitate. He was more romantic than all the romances he had read. 
He thought to deserve the love of Yseult by renouncing her, and 
to justify her preference by proving that he was superior to all 
those goods which she offered to him. There was therefore pride 
also in his decision. It could be found in all great actions if they 
were thus analysed. 

He waited until the count de Villepreux had rested well, and 
ventured to ask an interview with him. it was refused at first. 
He insisted, and obtained it. 

The old man was pale and severe. “ Pierre,” said he in an 
enfeebled voice, “ do you come to insult my sorrow and my ill- 
ness ? You whom I loved as my own son, you to whom I have 
opened my arms, and to whom I would have given half of my pro- 
perty as to the most worthy and most useful man, you have deceiv- 
ed me, you have torn my heart, you have seduced my daughter !” 

Pierre was not the dupe of this declamation prepared before- 


384 


THE COMPANION 


hand, and he smiled inwardly at the trouble taken to enchain a 
man who had come to give himself up. “ No, M. the count,” 
replied he in a firm tone, “ I have no such crime to reproach my- 
self with ; and if I had been so mean as to think of it, your noble 
daughter would have known how much to protect herself. I can 
swear to you, by all that is most sacred to you and to me upon 
the earth, by her, that my hand touched her’s yesterday for the 
first time, and that never, before that moment, had I the thought 
that she could love me.” 

This declaration, which it was impossible to doubt when one 
knew the sincerity and morality of Pierre Huguenin in the small- 
est degree, removed a horrible weight from the old count. He 
knew his grand-daughter too well to fear that her romance re- 
sembled that of the marchioness. But on learning that the open- 
ing of Yseult’s project had been so recent, he entertained the 
hope of making her renounce it more easily. 

“ Pierre,” said he, “ I believe you ; I should doubt myself 
sooner than you. But will you have as much courage as frank- 
ness ? Having done nothing, as I presume, to mislead my 
daughter’s mind, will you do all in your power to bring her back 
to her duty and to the submission she owes to me ?” 

“ You are very hasty in your conclusions, M. the count,” re- 
plied Pierre, “ and you apparently have a very high opinion of 
my strength of mind. I thank you humbly, but I should like to 
know why you would refuse the hand of your beloved daughter 
to a man whom you esteem so much as to ask of him without 
hesitation an effort of virtue which you would not dare expect 
from any other.” 

This embarrassing question was the only vengeance which 
Pierre wished to take on the hypocrisy of the old count. The 
latter could only reply by childish arguments, and he adduced 
such mean and vulgar considerations that Pierre felt pity for 
him. He spoke of engagements before made for Yseult’s esta- 
blishment. Pierre knew very well that he lied, and that he 
would not have promised his grand-daughter without her consent. 
He spoke of the world, of opinion, of prejudices; of the un- 
happiness, of the abandonment and the contempt which would 
be his daughter’s lot, if she listened to the voice of her heart 


OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 


385 


without consulting that absurd and unjust world, to which it was 
necessary, nevertheless, to yield faith and homage, under the 
penalty of no longer having a stone on which to lay her head. 
Yseult was a child ; she would repent having yielded to a ro- 
mantic inspiration, when it would be too late to draw back ; and 
Pierre, in his turn, would repent it bitterly ; he would be given 
up to humiliation, to remorse, to the mortal sorrow of seeing the 
sufferings of a being who would have sacrificed herself for him. 

“ This is quite enough, M. the count,” said Pierre, “ to occasion 
your fear and your refusal. All this would be nothing, however, 
had I not decided beforehand to grant what you desire ; for I have 
a higher idea than you of the wisdom and firmness of your 
daughter. But I came here to tell you that which perhaps you 
do not expect : it is, that I should refuse to become your son-in- 
law, even if you should consent. Please recall quite a long 
conversation upon property which you deigned to have with me, 
M. the count, and remember that I did not receive from you the 
solution I expected. As I am a simple and ignorant man, and 
yet an honest one, and as you were not willing to tell me if 
riches were a right and poverty a duty, being in doubt I abstain 
and remain poor. This is all my answer.” 

The count opened his arms to the mechanic, and, weakened 
by fear, by illness, and by gratitude, thanked him with tears for 
not being willing to touch his riches and his vanity. 

“ Now,” said Pierre to him coldly, after having undergone a 
torrent of praises which did not greatly increase his pride, “ I 
ask your permission to see mademoiselle de Villepreux, and to 
speak with her without witnesses.” 

“ Go, Pierre,” replied the count, after a moment of hesitation 
and trouble. “ You cannot tell a falsehood, that is impossible. 
That which you have promised, you will hold. That which 
you have conceived, you will execute.” 

Pierre remained closeted two hours with Yseult. They de- 
bated step by step their different manner of understanding and 
practising the beau ideal. Yseult was immovable in her design 
of being united to him whom she had chosen ; and Pierre, over- 
powered by this struggle against himself, knew not how to an- 
swer her, when she concluded by saying to him : 

18 


386 THE COMPANION OF THE TOUR OF FRANCE. 

“ Pierre, I see that we must separate for some months, for 
some years perhaps. The grief and the terror I experienced 
yesterday on seeing my father disavow the unchangeable choice 
I have made of you, have taught me to what remorse I should 
be a victim did I occasion by my resistance the death of the 
man whom I cherish most in the world after you ; yes, Pierre, 
after you : the most virtuous of the two has the greatest place in 
my heart. But I have towards my grandfather the duties of a 
whole life, from which a day of weakness and error on his part 
cannot set me free. So long as he shall oppose our love, I shall not 
speak of it to him again ; please God I will not embitter his last 
years by a persecution to which he would perhaps yield ! But 
it is possible that of himself (and I expect it — I who am not ac- 
customed to doubt him), he will return to the truth which I have 
always seen him love and practise. If he persists, I shall sub- 
mit myself to all his wishes, excepting that of marrying any 
other man than you. In that respect, I no longer consider my- 
self free. What I tell you, I have sworn to God and to myself. 
I shall not break my oath. Thus, in one year as in ten, the 
day on which I shall be free, if you have had the patience to 
wait for me, Pierre, you will again find me with the feelings in 
which you leave me this day.” 

Three days afterwards, the count, his son, his daughter, and 
his niece, were rolling in a four horse berlin upon the road to 
Paris, the Corinthian in the diligence upon that to Lyons, on his 
way for Italy. The Savinienne was arranging Yseult’s study, 
and shedding large tears in silence. The Berrichon was singing 
in the workshop, and Pierre Huguenin, pale as a winding sheet, 
thin, grown ten years older in a day, worked with a calm air, 
and replied with gentleness to the caresses and anxious ques- 
tions of his father. 

JVote. To those who earnestly seek a solution of the all-important 
problem which occupied Pierre Huguenin, I would recommend a perusal 
of Math. Briancourt’s “ Organization of Labor and Association ,” a 
translation of which has recently been published by Wm. H. Graham, 
Tribune Buildings, New York. Price twenty-five cents.— Translator. 


APPENDIX. 


Extract from the Book of the Companionship (or Masonic Trades- 
Unions of France), by Agricol Perdiguer, surnamed Avignonnais la 
Verlu, Journeyman joiner. 

“We have now to speak of the Companionship, and to ascertain, if 
possible, its real source, its origin : can this origin be as ancient as the 
foundation of Solomon’s temple ? The companions, without the power 
of giving satisfactory proofs, say : yes ; and the learned, without deign- 
ing to examine the matter seriously, say : no. The companions, skilled 
in manual labor and in what especially relates to their trades, have not 
written their own history, and those who make a trade of writing his- 
tory, have left on one side the life of the laboring classes, as a thing 
too mean to excite their interest. They nevertheless tell us of various 
associations known in Egypt and Syria, the members of which called 
themselves Therapeutics, Pharisees, Sadducees, Essenians, &c. These 
latter, especially, if we are to believe Josephus, a Jewish historian, and 
Philo, a learned man of the same nation, who wrote thirty years before 
the birth of Jesus Christ, must have existed as an association in Judea 
from very ancient times. There were among the Essenians, initiations, 
ceremonies, secrets, several hierarchical orders ; and a year of noviciate 
was required before one could attain any order. The chief of the as- 
sociation was elected by all the associates, and by a plurality of votes ; 
all the members lived in common and as brothers. When two of them 
met for the first time, though they had never known each other in any 
manner, each treated the other as an old friend. The member who 
behaved badly towards his brothers, was neither put in prison nor 
punished with death, but driven \yith disgrace from the community, 
which rejected him for ever ; I know that this association was not the 
companionship, but there was a resemblance in many respects. 

Since we have received details respecting the Essenians, the Saddu- 


388 


APPENDIX. 


cees, and so many other sects, we ought also to have received some 
respecting the workmen of antiquity. 

How did the workmen live who built the pyramids and the gigantic 
temples of old Egypt ? How did those live who built the so renowned 
ramparts of rich Babylon ? How did those live who created the monu- 
ments of Palmyra and Balbec, the immense ruins of which strike all 
beholders with astonishment, and give rise to such profound reflections ? 
How did those live who erected the Parthenon of Athens, the tomb of 
Mausoleus, the Roman coliseum, and the temple of Solomon, cele- 
brated throughout the universe ? Did they live in associations ? Did 
they remove in bodies from one place to another when great buildings 
were to be erected, or in an isolated manner, one by one ? No one 
knows, neither the historians, nor the archeologists, nor the philoso- 
phers. 

Ask only how the workmen lived who built Notre-Dame of Paris, or 
the cathedral of Chartres, or that of Rouen, and so many old and solid 
bridges, scattered here and there over the soil of France. With a 
great deal of trouble you will obtain for answer some words respecting 
Master Bon-CEil, a distinguished stone-cutter, who, after having com- 
pleted Notre-Dame of Paris, departed in 1370 for Upsal, in Sweden, 
with companions and bachelors ; there may be something said also 
about the bridge-building brothers, at whose head, in 1180, marched 
Saint Beneret, a young shepherd of the Yivarais. 

If we were to question the Germans and the Italians, the first might 
tell us something of the companions who built the cathedrals of Cologne 
and of Strasburg ; the last of those who built that of Milan. If we ascend 
to more remote antiquity, the Bible and the Assyrian and Egyptian 
chronicles would tell us that, at the building of such and such monu- 
ments, the workmen were very numerous and divided into several orders 
or categories ; but all this is very incomplete and does not inform us 
how the workmen lived, how their associations were formed, organized, 
and perpetuated from age to age. 

In all times men have been interested in the monuments, in their 
arrangements, in their destinations, in their successive transformations, 
and their smallest remains ; all this has been spoken of at great length 
and in a more or less learned manner ; but of the workmen, who, by 
the power of genius and perseverance, raised those great masses of 
stone, of wood, and of metal, no one has ever said anything positive and 
really satisfactory. There is ingratitude in this: why should so nu- 
merous and so useful a part of the people be despised ? 

As there have always been religions and mystical associations in the 
countries of the East, it was there the workmen first became acquainted 


APPENDIX. 


3S9 


with these kinds of associations, and since then they have always 
practised them. The builders of so many temples and so many palaces, 
were associated almost like the Essenians ; they had noviciates, initia- 
tions, particular feast days, secrets, recognisances ; and, whatever name 
they may have assumed, they were the real companionship. The 
companionship has therefore existed for several thousand years : the 
companions place its foundation in the temple of Solomon ; at first I 
believed this, then I ceased to do so, and, after having turned over many 
volumes and applied myself to a deeper examination, my first belief no 
longer appears to me absurd and contrary to the truth. At least, if the 
companionship was not invented there, it may there have received a 
form, a more perfect organization. 

In the time of Samuel there were but few mechanics in Judea : the 
Jews, attached to agriculture and the care of flocks and herds, knew 
nothing of arts and industry. In the time of King David, mechanics 
were formed in the country of Israel, and were introduced from foreign 
countries. Still more was this the case in the time of Solomon, his 
son ; for, according to the Bible, the workmen who labored on the tem- 
ple were so many that they could not be numbered. All these accounts 
seem exaggerated ; but if we consider that, in those days so far removed 
from our own, they had not our expeditious processes for cutting stone 
and wood ; that men were not spurred on by competition, that the coun- 
try was very mountainous, that they lacked machines and powerful 
means of transport ; that it was necessary to carry upon shoulders all 
that could be so carried, and to roll upon cylindrical pieces of wood, 
through long uneven distances, the enormous pieces of stone taken from 
deep quarries ; when we reflect upon all this, the accounts in the Bible 
will no longer appear exaggerated. I say, therefore, that the temple, 
that the palaces, that the walls of Jerusalem were built by mechanics 
of the country, and by strangers in still greater numbers ; that the cities 
of Palmyra and Balbec, which contained so many wonders, and the 
foundation of which is attributed by the Orientalists to Solomon, were 
also built by the same hands ; that all which is seen of great and beau- 
tiful, whether in Judea, in Syria, in Babylonia, in Egypt, in Greece, or 
in Rome, was made by associations of workmen, by companions ; and 
they certainly were not directed by miserly speculators, by intriguing 
industrialists, whose dry heart, whose cold soul had gold alone for a god 
and a motive. 

The companionship was something permanent, wandering, cosmopoli- 
tan ; it removed religiously from one place to another ; it went wherever 
great undertakings called it ; it had chiefs taken from its own bosom, 
who never left it, chiefs in whom the arts, the sciences, and glory were 


390 


APPENDIX. 


the only passions, the only love; a love which guided them constantly 
and uprightly all the days of their life. 

Of what consequence is it that Judea and Syria, the countries in which 
the companionship originated, passed under the successive domination 
of the Egyptians, the Syrians, the Persians, the Greeks, the Romans, 
and the Turks ? The conquerors dispersed the inhabitants, overthrew 
the monuments ; then, when the storm had passed, the peaceful work- 
men again assembled, and rebuilt what the savage warriors had thrown 
to the ground. And yet it is on these last alone that historians, that 
poets lavish their praises, and bestow crowns and glory, while they 
leave in an unjust oblivion, the most industrious and most useful men, 
who, by their rarely interrupted labors, efface the traces of crimes, of 
• ravages, and desolation. This proves that, in all places and all times, 
gold has been in the hands of the least pure and the least beneficent, and 
that the mass of artists and learned men was always vain, ambitious, and 
corruptible. 

Were I asked if the companionship had never been modified in its 
language, its forms, and its ceremonies, I should reply that it has neces- 
sarily undergone the influences of place and time : it is Christian in 
France, it was Hebrew and Pagan in Judea and Syria. The com- 
panionship receives members without question as to their religious 
belief ; hence it follows that it has always been of the religion of the 
country in which it recruits its numbers. The basis of the companion- 
ship has always been fraternal, religious ; hence its long existence. But 
how did it pass from the East to the West ? from Asia to Europe ? We 
will try to explain this ; but we must go some way back ; as far as the 
crusades. 

In 1095, six hundred thousand men took the cross and departed 
tumultuously under arms to go and deliver the tomb of Jesus Christ ; 
but we must not believe that all these intrepid Christians were counts, 
barons, dukes, &c., &c. ; there were among them serfs, villeins, clowns : 
I mean people not claiming nobility, valets, peasants, mechanics. 
These were required to open roads, to build bridges, fortifications, and 
warlike machines which defend places, or attack them by opening a 
breach through which the combatants have to pass. In those days 
cannon were unknown, and sieges were generally extremely long ; still, 
four years after their departure from the west, the crusaders had con- 
quered the holy city and planted their banners upon its bloody walls ; 
they were masters of Judea and of almost all Syria. 

At this period there was formed in Jerusalem by the side of the 
religious and warlike association of the knights of the hospital of Saint 
John, afterwards called knights of Malta, that of the knights of the 


APPENDIX. 


391 


Temple, known under the name of Templars ; the mechanics of Europe, 
in contact with the nomadic mechanics of the East, very skilful in 
theory and practice, soon obtained from them important acquirements in 
the art of building, and moreover, forms of association which they had 
never known. In the city of Jerusalem, near the tomb of Jesus Christ, 
and the remains of the temple of Solomon, of that Jewish king whose 
name is still revered in those burning countries, they also associated 
themselves together, they adopted the old companionship, which they 
found already made, and which they christianized in a degree. 

The stone cutters first formed themselves into a society ; they were 
Foreign Companions,* and children of Solomon ; the joiners and the 
workers in iron soon followed suit; they were Companions of Liberty , 
and also recognised Solomon as their father. 

The name of foreign companion, which was so well adapted to the 
ancient builders of so many monuments of which vestiges only remain, 
was not less appropriate to European mechanics associated in such dis- 
tant countries. Neither was the name of companion of Liberty mis- 
placed ; for, in the countries of despotism and tyranny, the weak unite 
as much as they can and rescue themselves from slavery and poverty in 
the name of liberty ; and besides, for these associations which are so 
pacific and acknowledged as so useful by their labors, the word liberty 
signified moreover, that they were free, that they enjoyed certain 
franchises, that they were so far independent of the civil and military 
authorities. Thus, in Germany, the associated stone-cutters were called 
Masons francs , or Free Masons. Nevertheless, the companions of 
Europe, while in Judea and Syria, were armed, as were the warlike 
monks ; like them they wore the sword ; in a country which is colonized, 
all the building and colonizing mechanics are soldiers in case of need ; 
the labors of the colony must be protected. If firearms are placed in the 
hands of these men in our day, as is the case in Algiers, they could then 
have, and for the strongest reasons, only side-arms ; our fathers in the 
companionship, therefore, wore the sword ; the corporations established 
in France also wore it in their ceremonies not long since, as is well 
known. But this right was acquired by them in Palestine, it could 
come only from there. 

Thus the stonecutters, the joiners, and the iron-workers brought to 
Europe with the companionship of Jewish origin, the forms of which 
were new to our climate, the boldest tastes and a profound knowledge 

* It must be borne in mind that the same word in French signifies 
companion and journeyman — as we cannot represent the same idea in 
English by a single word, I have thought it best to use the first, as most 
appropriate. — Trans. 


392 


APPENDIX. 


in the art of building. It was after the crusades that men saw erected 
so many cathedrals with lofty spires, loaded in all parts with ornaments 
and original sculptures, and embellished with such remarkable pulpits 
and other wood-work. It was at this period that Paris, Chartres, Rouen, 
Saint Quentin, Laon, built their colossal cathedrals ; that Italy, Germa- 
ny, saw arise their grand edifices ; that the East scattered, by means of 
the companionship and the monks who protected it, her forms and 
architectural power over the whole of Europe. No one who studies the 
monuments erected in Europe before the crusades, and those which 
sprang up immediately after, will be inclined to contradict me. 

The German mechanics who built the cathedrals of Cologne and of 
Strasburg in the course of the 13th century, were associated; they 
called themselves francs masons , masons francs , or masons libres ; the 
statutes of their association, called free-masonry, were secret : they 
admitted members successively to the grades of apprentice, of journey- 
men and of master, which correspond to those of the companions. They 
had feasts, ceremonies, signs, grips, and particular words, by which to re- 
cognise each other. Their object was, to form skilful artists by exciting 
emulation, and to secure the comfort of all the associates ; the com- 
panionship, in France, has still the same object. This association of 
German freemasons, who cut stone and built cathedrals, exists no longer, 
but it gave birth to the free-masonry of symbols, which has spread in 
our day over all parts of the world. To prove that I do not invent 
fables at will in order to support foolish pretensions, I quote from the 
history of Germany, by M. Lebas :* “ When, in the 11th and 12th cen- 
turies, art was displaced and passed from the hands of the monks into 
those of laymen, these latter, following the example of their predecessors, 
bound among themselves in all countries by a confraternity which 
assured them aid and assistance, or more properly, in imitation of the 
Byzantine and Arabian artists who had continued the Roman corpora- 
tions, united among themselves, formed a brotherhood which used cer- 
tain signs of recognition, and concealed from the vulgar the rules of its 
art. In Germany this association, already commenced by the architects! 

Published in the “ Univers Pittoresque ,” the finest historical collec- 
tion that can be found. 

f Not by the architects, for this word was not in use, but by the stone- 
cutters. Master Gerard, the director of this great work, is known, in 
the papers of the time, simply as a stone-cutter; the same is the case 
with Master Bonceil, director of the works of the cathedral of Paris. The 
reader will therefore understand that by architects are meant the master- 
masons and the journeymen charged with the direction of the labors of 
an edifice. 


APPENDIX. 


393 


of the cathedral of Cologne, did not become generally extended until the 
time of Erwin de Steinbach, at the end of the thirteenth century. The 
members who composed it were divided into masters and journeymen, 
and gave themselves the names of free-masons, in consequence of cer- 
tain privileges enjoyed by the trade of masons.* This association was 
in its turn divided into particular associations, which bore the title of 
lodges, the name given to the habitation of the architect in the vicinity 
of each building in the course of erection. The statutes of free-masonry 
were kept secret ; before being received, the brothers bound themselves 
by an oath to obedience, and to keep an absolute silence respecting all 
that related to their union. The maxims of the art were never to be 
written ; they were expressed by symbolical figures taken from geome- 
try, or from the instruments of architecture and masonry, and the know- 
ledge of these symbols was communicated only to the initiated. This 
absence of all written lessons had the double advantage of preserving 
the art, as a sacred thing, above the reach of the vulgar who would 
have profaned and deteriorated it, and of compelling all those who 
wished to become artists to undergo a practical apprenticeship. No one 
was received a free-mason until he had given proofs of mastership in an 
examination which was the more severe and scrupulous because the 
brotherhood guaranteed the talent of its members, often designating the 
masters , the leaders, and the journeymen who were to undertake an 
edifice, encouraging them, or reprimanding and punishing them accord- 
ing to the merit of their work. The mathematical mind of the archi- 
tects of the middle ages, seeing that the good and the beautiful of the 
whole existed only in the symmetry, order, and harmony of the parts, 
undertook to subject to inviolable rules, not only the conduct of the 
artists, but also the moral conduct of the free-masons. The life of each 
must be religious, sober, honest, and quiet. A masonic rule made at 
Torgau, in 1462, by the masters of Magdeburg, of Halberstadt, of Hil- 
desheim, &c., and preserved until our day at Rochiltz, has remained 
as a curious monument of the statutes of the association. The most 
important relations between the architects and the workmen, as well as 
those which are apparently the most insignificant, are there strictly 
regulated, under constant threats of punishment ; and this punishment 
was nothing less, in many cases, than expulsion from the fraternity as 
an unworthy member, or a declaration that the culprit was devoid of 
honor. Lying, calumny, envy, a disorderly life were, among the jour- 
neymen, punished by expulsion, and there is every reason for believing 
that such a condemnation deprived them of their trade. Among the 
masters, the same faults produced the same result, they also were de- 

* The words mason and stone-cutter were applied to the same trade. 

18 * 


394 


APPENDIX. 


dared to be devoid of honor. The least negligence in labor, and even 
in the care of instruments and tools, was also punished by fixed penah 
ties. Two tribunals, one superior, the other inferior, took cognisance 
of offences, and decided differences. The first sat every three years in 
the chief place of each particular brotherhood ; the second was held in 
the lodge of the architect, entitled a sacred place ; finally, the grand 
lodge of Strasburg decided upon all causes in the last resort. The 
symbolical figures served not only to express the maxims of the art in 
general, they were also employed as signatures by the masters and 
workmen, who were to sign each piece of work with their particular 
mark, in order that the author might be known. These same signs, 

infinitely varied, served as a key for the explanation of the building 

Moreover, if, as everything leads us to believe, a belief more elevated 
than that of the vulgar had been admitted by the free-masonry of the 
middle ages, this alone has survived the principal and primitive object 
of the association, and has continued until our days in the solely moral 
institution of modern free-masonry. 

“ The free-masonic association counted four principal lodges : the 
lodge of Strasburg, that of Cologne, the lodge of Vienna and that of 
Zurich. The first had twenty-two lodges in the south of Germany, de- 
pendent upon it; the second all the lodges of the Rhine country; the 
third those of Austria, Bohemia, and Hungary ; finally the fourth, the 
lodges of Switzerland. The lodge of Strasburg had at the same time a 
general supremacy over all the others, and the head architect of the 
cathedral was always grand-master of the free-masons of Germany. 
But in the XVI. century the spirit that had animated the brotherhood 
had left it by degrees with the science which it had been led to neglect, 
as much from its own fault as in consequence of political events. The 
style of the Restoration, which was opposed to the Gothic style, then in 
its declining period, and which was favorably received in Germany, soon 
caused the precepts of the art of the middle ages and of free-masonry 
to be looked upon as ruined and worn-out, and when, at the end of the 
XVII. century, a decision of the imperial diet broke the connexion of 
the German lodges with the lodge of Strasburg, because this city had 
become French, the association was without a head and did not hasten 
to elect another. At last in 1731, another decision of the diet having 
forbidden keeping the rules of art secret as in the past, free-masonry 
was in fact dissolved, because it no longer had an object, and it disap- 
peared entirely as an institution having in view the maintenance of art.” 

The above is the explanation given, in highly esteemed works, by 
writers full of wisdom and discernment. 

I will add that the highest among the ancient associates, having ac- 


APPENDIX. 


395 


quired riches, felt ambition in their hearts ; architecture was no longer 
the object of all their thoughts, they preferred the company of persons 
strangers to their art, and sometimes of an elevated condition, whom 
they insensibly attracted into their mysterious association ; and when, 
in 1731, the industrial association was dissolved, the philosophical asso- 
ciation, having already a commencement of existence, was definitively 
constituted, extended itself infinitely, and from the simple passed to the 
figurative. Yes, here everything / was symbolized, the leathern apron 
of the workman became the emblem of labor, the compass that of jus- 
tice, the square that of uprightness, the level that of equality, the mallet 
that of power. God was called the great architect ; their discourses in 
prose and verse relative to the association, took the names of pieces of 
architecture. In general, at their banquets, they used the names of 
building materials ; the bread was stone, salt and pepper were sand, the 
fork was a mattock, the spoon was a trowel, and the plates were tiles. 
There can be no mistake here, this is certainly the parody of words 
which the same association used quite naturally in its primitive state. 
In spite of this demonstration, many free-masons, many members of that 
association of symbols, which at this moment covers the earth, would 
with difficulty be persuaded that they originated from an association of 
workmen. This is nevertheless true, as it is true that the charcoal- 
burners of the vicinity of Naples were the initiators of the Carbonaros 
of Italy and France, whose only object was the overthrow of all royal 
power. Doubtless there may have existed for a long time many secret 
associations, having no connexion with the associations of workmen, 
but the associates united with the masons or assumed their name in 
order not to be suspected by the authorities. The workmen, in becom- 
ing associated, have but one object, that of assisting each other ; others 
have not always the same restricted ideas. They are known and 
watched, and we can understand why they are then obliged to disguise 
themselves under forms and names which are not their own. 

Besides, why should the members of an association whose object is 
entirely spiritual and moral, have taken the name of masons , which was 
formerly given only to those who cut stone, using a mace of iron or wood, 
with which they struck upon an iron or steel chisel ? From mace is de- 
rived mafon. The masons of those countries where the stone was less 
hard invented a cutting hammer, whence they were called stone-cutters, 
though they are still known as masons in some regions. 

Thus the builders of monuments, who, after the crusades, spread over 
Germany under the protection of the armed monks and the monks with- 
out arms, called themselves free-masons, while those who spread over 
France called themselves foreign stone-cutters and free companions. . . 


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TRANSLATED BY 

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NEW YORK: 

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